


Null

by XavierTeatime



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-09-15 04:59:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 79,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9219845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XavierTeatime/pseuds/XavierTeatime
Summary: An infinite number of timelines - an incalculable number of them doomed. How could one ever be sure theirs wasn't next? Years after the events of Awakening, a group of young adults struggle to survive in a world that doesn't belong to them, while a strange new Plegian threatens to plunge Ylisse into darkness once more. Cross-posting from ff.net; feedback is appreciated :)





	1. Chapter 0

Chapter 0

Time - Null

Place - Void

 

The city is burning and my friends are dead...

Gerome lifted up his mask to run an arm across his eyes. The smoke and stench of death was irritating them, causing them to water up and blur his vision. Of course, his sleeve was as covered with muck and blood as the rest of him, resulting in a large smear across his face.

He blinked rapidly until he was sure he could see, then lowered the mask back down. There wasn’t much cause for it here. The only ones around were the Risen, and they lacked the basic sentience necessary to recognize the emotions on a human face. It offered minimal protection in combat. And he didn’t need to hide from his friends. They were dead.

He continued to push through the burning husk of Ylisstol towards the designated meeting spot set up by Lucina. He did this because he had no idea what else to do. Simply laying down to die wasn’t in his nature; he may well be the last man alive in Ylisse but he would go down fighting, cursing out his enemies with his final breath.

There was a screech from above as Minerva circled overhead. She recognized this place, or at least what it once was. Ylisstol Castle, once the resplendent jewel of the Halidom, now just another pile of burning rubble in a country of burning rubble. Gods willing, Lucina was inside, ready to perform the Awakening with whoever was left. Gerome refused to let any hope take hold in his heart.

Another screech from Minerva let Gerome know that enemies were ahead. Readying his axe, he made his way towards the barricades surrounding the castle, marking one final stronghold for mankind. A human could easily use the handholds to climb over it, but the more sluggish Risen tended to clump into each other and collapse into a heap.

Before Gerome even reached them, his wyvern swooped down out of the sky and picked up two Risen, one in each massive talon. Their shoddy weapons clattered to the ground, followed shortly by their owners from a considerably higher altitude. Those remaining went down quickly. One on one, no Risen was a threat to Gerome, who had been fighting them since he hit his teen years. The threat came from their numbers, which at times seemed endless.

That’s how they had gotten Laurent.

With a soft grunt of exertion, Gerome hoisted himself up and over the barricade, dropping down heavily on the other side. Minerva finished circling overhead and gently came down to land beside him. Together, man and wyvern entered the empty, cavernous halls of what so recently felt like a bustling city of its own.

It wasn’t too long before he heard an irritated voice call out, “who is it!? I mean...who goes there?”

“Gerome,” he called back. He recognized the voice and tone instantly - Severa stepped out of the shadows ahead, her expression of perpetual annoyance softening when she realized he was alone.

“Laurent..?” she asked. Gerome said nothing. It was enough.

“Lucina is up ahead,” Severa continued after a moment of silent contemplation. Gerome felt the slightest spark of hope light up at that. “We got the Emblem. No one else has made it back yet, though.”

Gerome fished something out of his bag and held it up between them where it gave off an eerie glow in the darkness.

“Vert,” he said. “Now we just need to pray the others were successful.”

Severa turned and led him into the great hall. Atop a short but wide flight of stairs, Lucina sat in the throne that would have been hers. Well, it was hers, now, for all the good it did. Falchion lay across her lap. She held the Fire Emblem in her hands, inspecting it carefully.

She looked up as she heard the footsteps. “Gerome!” she gasped. Carefully placing the Emblem and her sword aside, she bounded down the stairs and embraced her friend.

“Laurent did not make it,” Gerome said softly as she held him. He couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands.

“And we shall mourn him, along with all the others who have fallen,” Lucina said as they broke apart. “But you are here. Which means there is hope. For another Laurent yet to be. For all of us.”

Unwilling to betray his uncertainty with Lucina’s final plan, Gerome said nothing.

And then they waited. There was nothing else to do.

Finally, from a different wing than the one Gerome entered, voices could be heard.

“Sanctuary! Saaaanctuuuuaaaaryyyy!”

Lucina ran a hand down her face.

Inigo and Owain entered the hall at a run. With perhaps even more enthusiasm than Lucina had shown, Inigo leapt into an embrace around Gerome, who simply grimaced. He knew that, much like a Valmese Finger Trap, fighting would just make it worse.

“My boon companions! My heart leaps to know you have survived,” Owain announced.

“Yes, it would have been a very lonely final stand indeed, were it just us men,” Inigo agreed. “As is, we come bearing gifts.” He pulled out a small coin purse, and opened it up to reveal two gems similar to the one Gerome had found. “Behold! Agent and Sabre!”

“Argent and Sable,” Lucina corrected. Though she was smiling now, her joy at seeing more of her friends alive and successful overcoming the usual annoyance one inevitably encountered when Inigo and Owain were feeling dramatic.

“I made sure Inigo carried them,” Owain said as Inigo handed them over. “Such powerful relics in my hand - the Fel Dragon would surely be destroyed, but so might all of us!”

“Oh, and we saw Brady outside,” Inigo added. “Looked like he was carrying something. Like...a sack of potatoes? Is there a sack of potatoes shaped gemstone?”

“My brother..? What?” Lucina perked up. “Where is he now?”

“We probably should have stopped to help him,” Owain admitted. “We were just a bit excited to get you the gemstones.”

On cue, Brady shuffled into the hall, cursing and mumbling under his breath. Though he was the only surviving member of the group inept at fighting, he had inherited his father’s imposing build and was capable of carrying a good deal of weight with ease.

It soon became clear that what he was carrying was not a sack of potatoes. It wasn’t a sack of anything. It was a white-haired body.

“Morgan?” Inigo asked in shock, as Brady lowered the young girl to the ground.

“What happened to her?” Lucina asked, rushing over to see if she was okay. To her relief, the girl was still breathing.

“Search me!” Brady answered defensively. “She kept ranting and raving about Grima! Like, like she was servin’ him or some nonsense! So I...I, uh…”

Gerome and the others all turned curiously to the prince.

“I kinda clobbered her with my staff,” Brady stammered out.

“Kind of?” Lucina said disapprovingly.

“I didn’t know what else to do! I know she don’t mean it. She’s one of us, so...I mean, I figured she’d wanna come back in time even if she don’t remember how she got there.”

Noticing the prince’s distress, Gerome uncharacteristically placed a hand on his shoulder. “You did good, Brady,” he said. Brady grinned, blushing a bit.

“Boy, you really did a number on her noggin, Brady,” Inigo said, somewhat dampening the moment.

“I’ll just...I’ll just get to healin’ her then…” Brady mumbled, shooing the others away from Morgan’s comatose figure.

“Hey, Gerome…” Owain said, looking around. “I just realized, wasn’t Laurent supposed to be with you..?”   
Gerome slowly shook his head. “We were swarmed by Risen. Too many to fight. We tried to run, but...he gave me Vert and fell behind.”

Owain, Inigo and Brady quietly lowered their heads in a moment of recognition for their fallen companion.

“And have we received any word on the girls..?” Inigo eventually asked.

“No,” Lucina said. And that was that.

Brady did his best to heal the blow to Morgan’s head, though she remained unconscious throughout. Minuted gave way to hours. The group began to fidget more and more.

“They should be here by now,” Brady groaned.

“Hush, brother,” Lucina admonished. “They’ll be here. They must.”

The ground began to rumble. Subtly, but noticeably.

“What in the name of--” Owain began. In a flash, Gerome leapt onto Minerva’s back.

“I’ll check,” he said, and spurred the wyvern into action. The two sped down one of the long castle corridors, out an open portcullis, and over a crumbling barricade.

Gerome scanned the horizon as Minerva fought for altitude. At first he couldn’t tell what he was seeing. Then he refocused his eyes.

The horizon was moving.

“No,” he whispered. “We need more time.” Minerva dove downwards.

“Gerome!” he heard a voice cry out. He guided Minerva into a spin, until he saw a splash of colour moving through the bleak landscape. Nah and Noire, running as fast as they could ahead of the oncoming horde of Risen.

“Come on!” Gerome screamed. Minerva swept down, and Gerome lashed out with his axe, cleaving into pieces a few Risen that were catching up to the two girls.

“Gerome!” Nah yelled again. She held a carefully tied bag out towards him. “Gules and Azure! Get them to Lucina!”

“Get them to her yourself! You’re going to make it!” Gerome snarled.

Noire turned, raising her bow. She pulled the string back and there was a twang, and a thud--

Her arrow clattered to the ground in front of her, then her bow. When Gerome turned to look, an arrow was jutting out of her throat.

“Noire! No--” Nah screamed. Gerome grabbed the back of her robes and held on tight as Minerva regained altitude. Nah’s feet dangled in the air, but she held on tight to the gemstones.

Minerva glided through the tunnel back into the main hall at such speed that the others waiting there had to scatter at their approach. Nah rolled to a halt. The bag fell from her hands, opened, and the two gemstones rolled…

...Into Lucina’s outstretched hands.

“Grima! He’s here!” Gerome yelled, hopping off Minerva as Inigo helped Nah back to her feet.

“Already? But...I don’t know if that’s enough…” Lucina said, her face going pale.

“We shall hold the gates and fight to the last man to protect you!” Owain announced. “At least one of us must make it back!”

“We’re all going to make it back!” Lucina screamed. “Come on, let’s hurry--”

The castle began to shake with renewed vigor. Old, poorly maintained masonry fell from the ceiling in large lumps, breaking apart when it crashed into the floor.

“Bloody hell,” Gerome mumbled. He moved close to Lucina, hand on his axe.

“Gerome...if this doesn’t work, I...I’m sorry, for…”

Gerome removed his mask. This act alone caused Lucina to fall quiet. He held it out to her.

“Protect your identity in the past,” he said. “I have spares. Take it.”

Lucina nodded mutely, and took the mask. Her hands lingered on his for a moment.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Now or never, friends!” Inigo yelled. He and Brady had Morgan propped up between them, one arm draped over each.

Lucina began the awakening, and the upper half of the castle ripped away.

Grima loomed over them.

“It is too late. Your world is doomed.”

The words were not said so much as heard, echoing in Gerome’s mind, louder than any sound he’d ever heard. Blinding lights exploded around him. The ground shook, and somehow, so did the sky.

The world ended.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerome, Lucina, Inigo, Morgan, and Nah find themselves on duty during the Harvest Festival. Gerome debates telling Lucina his true feelings. Nah goes shopping. Inigo gets drunk. Many people die.

Chapter 1  
Time - Early Evening, Harvest Festival, 4 years after the fall of Grima  
Place - Border of Plegia, west of Ylisstol

The city is burning and my friends are dead...

“Gerome? Gerooome? Yoo-hoo?”

Gerome shook his head. Fireworks. It was just fireworks.

“You okay, buddy?” Inigo asked.

“Mm.” Gerome mumbled. The visions started to fade away, the incorporeal army of Risen that had been charging them giving way to the very real trees, the orange and red foliage rustling in the autumn breeze.

He blinked his eyes rapidly. He was shivering, but covered in sweat. It had felt so real.

The ritual had worked. And with that, the world had changed. The horrors they had experienced never happened. Yet they had happened, in a time and place that no longer existed anywhere except his mind.

“‘Mm?’” Inigo mimicked teasingly. “Well, glad we’ve got that all settled.”

A few girls sitting nearby giggled. Clearly Inigo had been working the crowd. Inigo took a long sip from a deep mug.

“This Plegian mead is good stuff,” he said, after putting it back down and smacking his lips a few times. “Want some?”

Gerome blinked a few times, then realized he shouldn’t be surprised. “We’re here as guards, you twit. This is no time for drinking and…” he waved noncommittally at the women nearby. “Whatever it is you do.”

“Gerome. Gerome! Gerome,” Inigo said, reaching across the table they were sitting at to pat him on the cheek. “It’s a festival. We’re supposed to be festivalating! No, that’s not a word. Celebrating!” He paused. “Is that your cheekbone? By the Gods, that is hard as--”

Gerome swatted his hand away. “Stop touching me. And yes, I understand this is a festival, but we are soldiers, and we are here to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

He scanned the field they were in. To the east was a denser forest, but the location of the festival was a grassy plain. Many long wooden tables had been set up, with benches running along either side, for people to sit and chat and eat and drink. Vendors had come from far and wide to set up booths from the backs of their carriages.

But, indeed, a good portion of those in attendance were soldiers. Gerome and Inigo were among them, as were their friends Lucina, Morgan, and Nah, who were elsewhere at the moment.

The large military presence was, hopefully, just a precaution. But this was the first Harvest Festival since the war to be jointly celebrated by Ylisse and Plegia.

Plegia had been well and truly decimated by Grima four years previously. Though Gerome and his friends had helped the heroes of this age defeat the Fel Dragon before it could consume all the world, the war had taken its toll. Forces in Ylisse and Plegia were stretched thin. Even the lands of Regna Ferox to the north, and Valm across the sea, were reeling from the near-cataclysmic events all those years previously.

At the time, Plegia had been ruled by two truly despicable tyrants in a row - first Gangrel, the rightly named ‘Mad King,’ and then by Validar, a cultist who actively fought to bring Grima into the world. Together, they had succeeded in turning Plegia into a truly unfortunate place to live, decimating the populace and annihilating the economy. Despite the longstanding enmity between the two countries, Ylisse had no choice but to help restore Plegia from the brink.

The odd twist to this hopeful festival of unity was that Plegia had a new king, one that had seemingly come from nowhere to take the throne. A young man named Mort, no older than Gerome, who was apparently the son of Mad King Gangrel and a woman named Aversa.

Gerome noticed their friend Morgan make her way over to sit down next to Inigo, on the other side from the women he was now shamelessly flirting with. She gave Gerome a weary smile, then cocked her head towards where Mort was sitting, flanked by his two personal guards.

“He keeps giving me weird looks,” she whispered to Gerome, who gave a sympathetic nod.

Aversa also happened to be Morgan’s mother, making her the unexpected half-brother of this new King. Her mother had once loyally served both Gangrel and Valider, but Morgan’s father - the famous tactician Robin - managed to win her over to his cause in the fight against Grima. The two fell in love, and, after the war, disappeared.

“Has he said anything to you?” Gerome asked.

“No! But probably only because every time he comes close I dive into a buffet table to escape, or start talking loudly in an accent so he thinks I’m someone else.” She glanced sidelong at Inigo. “Is he..?”

“Very drunk, yes,” Gerome said with a chuckle. It was hard to stay mad at Inigo for long, despite his faults. He managed to possess an optimism and enjoyment of life that Gerome and many of his other friends were sorely lacking.

Gerome turned his gaze back over to Mort. He, himself, looked like a pleasant young lad. Well dressed, with carefully groomed white hair, there was a slight resemblance between he and Morgan. He seemed to be trying rather hard to be sitting in a regal manner, composed and dignified as a king ought to be. But reading his face, Gerome perceived a great deal of discomfort, like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

The two guards flanking him, however, looked like thugs of the highest order. To Mort’s left was a tall, lanky man sporting a leer so sleazy he could likely commit sexual harassment while sitting quietly in a different room. A bow and quiver of arrows were slung over his shoulder, both shoddy and flimsy as if they’d been handed down for generations. His unkempt black hair was so greasy it could serve as a vacation spot for entire ecosystems.

To Mort’s right was a mountain of a man, from the rugged riding boots at the base, to the shaved white head at the peak. His face was covered in dark stubble, which did nothing to mask his perpetual scowl. On his back was a large, two-handed axe. While Gerome preferred to fight with an axe as well, he was forced to admit he would have a difficult enough time lifting that one up, let alone using it reliably in battle.

While the Plegians were lacking in numbers compared to the Ylisseans, Gerome felt that man alone would be a challenging opponent…

“Gerome? Gerooome?” Morgan cooed, waving a hand in front of his face. Gerome snapped back to reality, annoyed with himself for zoning out yet again.

Morgan looked over towards Mort, then back to Gerome. “Were you fantasizing about fighting the huge guy?”

“No,” Gerome lied. Seeking to quickly change the subject, he asked, “have you seen Lucina or Nah around?”

“I bumped into Nah while browsing the merchant stalls earlier,” Morgan answered. “And Lucina was talking to your dad. Uh, sorry. The general.”

Gerome looked up to the head of the table. It was mostly seating Ylissean soldiers, except for a few friends and the ladies Inigo was desperately trying to impress with heavily exaggerated war stories. And at the end of it all, Gerome’s father - the highest ranking Ylissean at the festival.

Obviously, both royal families were originally meant to attend. Unfortunately, the king and queen of Ylisse, Chrom and Maribelle, had traveled north to the bordering kingdom of Regna Ferox to meet with the ruling Khans there. While they had been expected to return in time for the Harvest Festival, word had reached Ylisstol that a massive blizzard was raging through the countryside, blocking any path back. It was freakishly early in the year for such a blizzard to strike, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

So Chrom had instructed that the general of his army take on the added title of diplomat, and attend the festival in his stead.

Giving a friendly nod to Morgan, and not bothering to acknowledge Inigo who was currently discussing how he took down 40 Grimleal single-handedly, Gerome got up and made his way over to his father.

Of course, no one knew they were father and son. The real Gerome was only 3 years old, back in Ylisstol with his mother. He was just another nameless mercenary with no past to speak of. But his combat prowess was undeniable, and the general was renowned for his convivial nature and willingness to discuss and strategize with anyone who showed talent, regardless of social status.

This was because Donnel had once been a simple farmhand. Dim-witted and whimpy, by his own admission, he had been taken in by Chrom at the start of the war with Plegia six years prior. Despite all expectations, he proved to be a natural with a sword, and in time had worked his way up to being one of the most skilled fighters and trusted advisors of the king.

“Howdy, son!” Donnel cheered as Gerome approached. He hurriedly added, “which is an affectionate nickname I give to everyone, hahah. Hello, son,” he said again, this time directed at an elderly woman walking by. She gave him a strange look and continued on her way.

“Hello,” Gerome said, sitting down by his side. “Everything looking calm?”

Donnel gave a chuckle. “Of course. Were you realize nervous? This whole thing, all these soldiers, it’s just a formality. Meant to make us look tough an’ the like. Chrom ain’t expectin’ any trouble.”

Gerome gave a shrug. “I can’t help but feel wary. We don’t know anything about this new king.”

“We know he’s a kid who lost his parents,” Donnel said. “An’ he looks scared as a pup in a thunderstorm. Maybe instead a’ bein’ suspicious, you should talk to him? That’s what Lucina thought, anyway.”

Gerome perked up at this. “Lucina wanted to speak with him?”

Donnel smirked. “She said somethin’ like that. Girl likes to keep her chicks close to the nest, if you catch my meanin’.”

Gerome, who had heard hundreds of equally meaningless analogies from his father, gave a half-hearted nod. “Right. Did you see where she got off to?”

“I wouldn’t worry about a royal matchup if I were you,” Donnel said. “Your Lucina ain’t technically a princess no more, remember?”

Gerome blushed, taken aback by this. “What?”

“That fancy mask of yours helps hide your feelin’s from some, Gerome, but not your ol’ pa,” Donnel said with a chuckle. Catching himself, he said, “Ol’ Pa being a nickname I encourage everyone to give me. Just call me Ol’ Pa!” he yelled at the same elderly lady who was now walking back in the opposite direction.

“I don’t know you! Leave me alone!” she snapped.

“Ahahah,” Donnel laughed awkwardly, turning back to Gerome.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gerome said coldly. “Lucina may not be an heir, anymore, but…” he paused, and said very softly, “she will always be a princess to me.”

“And there’s no way a girl raised as a princess could ever want to be with a big, dumb thug like you, huh?” Donnel said, leaning forward and lowering his voice so no others could hear them.

Gerome balked at this. “This is a highly inappropriate--”

“When I met your mother, she was arguably the most famous wyvern rider alive,” Donnel continued, unabated. “Stories of her skills were told across two continents. And you know who I was? A dumb farmhand who could barely tame a mule, in a village with more cows than people. When I joined Chrom’s army, I was a pathetic nobody surrounded by famous heroes. And I thought about sulking about it, staying out of the way of my betters because there was no way they’d befriend a dumb kid like me.” His face still set in unusual determination, Donnel went on, “but then I thought, t’ hell with that! So I put myself out there, and I trained and I fought, and that famous wyvern rider fell for me as hard as I fell for her. I know you, Gerome, and I know Lucina a fair bit as well. You ain’t hurtin’ no one but yourselves by pretendin’ she’s too good for you.”

Gerome was silent for a long moment. Then he reached out and grabbed Donnel’s hand. “I don’t have cause to say this to you often,” he said softly, “but you are a good father. Thank you.”

“Damn straight,” Donnel said, leaning back in his seat, his chipper demeanor returning. “There’s gonna be more fireworks later. Gonna be a real hoot. All romantic ‘n’ such. So you find your girl, y’hear?”

Gerome let out a sigh. “Sure, Ol’ Pa.” He allowed himself a slight smile, something he knew always made his father happy.

 

“Hmm,” Nah said. “This is a difficult decision.”

She held the orb up before her and watched as the light of the festival torches refracted through it.

“What is it, Nah?” Lucina asked, moving up through the crowd to stand beside her. “A magical focus of some sort?”

“It is...a necklace,” Nah responded, with a dramatic flourish. “It looks great on me, doesn’t it? Expensive, though…”

Lucina chuckled. “You know that my fashion sense is about on par with a blind newborn, yes?”

Nah slipped the necklace on and did a slow twirl. “So tell me if you think it looks good or not, and I’ll just do the exact opposite of your recommendation.”

The owner of the vendor stall came bustling over. She was a bubbly, busty redhead, all smiles and compliments. She knew that a flattered customer parted ways with their coin all the quicker.

“Darling, you look stunning,” she said. “You have the Anna guarantee that you’ll never find a finer piece of...finery!”

Nah slipped the necklace off. “Ah, it was nice to wear it for a moment, but such a frivolous thing...it would be foolish of me.” She balled the chain up and handed it back over to the shopkeep.

Anna looked momentarily defeated, but Nah was bustling off into the crowd before she could stop her. Lucina gave a sympathetic shrug, then hurried after her.

“Say, Nah, what do you think of that new king of Plegia?” Lucina asked when she caught up to the younger girl.

“I don’t,” Nah said. “Why, do you?”

“I’m just having a hard time getting a read on him, is all,” Lucina said slowly. “I don’t know why. I know I shouldn’t be judgmental just because his father was the Mad King. My grandfather was a warmonger, but father is as noble as they come. Still…it’s odd, isn’t it? That he just came out of nowhere? ...Nah?”

Nah had made her way over to another stall, this one filled with shelves lined with books, most of them old and well-worn. Sections had labels like “Magykks! Beware!” and “Forbidden Knowledges - Impress Thy Friends!”

“Who says ‘thy’?” Nah asked, eyeing the stall suspiciously.

Lucina caught up with her again. “I was thinking of approaching him.”

“Who?”

“Mort!”

“Oh,” Nah said with a half-interested shrug. “That sounds fun. Are you asking me to be your wingwoman?”

Lucina blushed. “Of course not, I just...wait, was that a pun?”

Nah smirked. “Couldn’t resist. Say, some of these tomes actually look impressive. I wonder where the shopkeeper is?”

As if on cue, a pile of books near the back of the stall shifted and unearthed a bubbly, busty redhead with a bright smile.

“Darling, you have a good eye,” she said. “You have the Anna guarantee that you’ll never find a finer piece of...bookery!”

Nah and Lucina looked sidelong at each other, then back to Anna.

“Aren’t you…” Nah began.

“Weren’t you just…” Lucina stammered.

“I get that a lot,” Anna said with a shrug. “Just one of those faces! Say, what genres are you interested in? History? Fiction? Rooooomaaaance?” she said while waggling her eyebrows at the two girls. “I’ve got some how-to books around here, too.” She turned and began rapidly skimming through the shelves. Finding one that seemed to catch her eye, she pulled it out and blew a layer of dust off the cover. “How To Please Thy Man Without Speaking Out Of Turn,” she read. “Hrm...bit outdated…”

“That’s quite alright,” Nah and Lucina both babbled at the same time.

“I think maybe this was enough shopping for me,” Lucina said, looking apologetically to Nah. “I’ll catch up with you later, yes?”

“Sure,” Nah responded. As Lucina pushed her way through the crowd away from the stalls, Nah found herself oddly drawn to stay at the book stall despite the eccentricity of the owner.

She brushed her fingers along the spines of a row of books labelled “On The Nature of Thyngs”. On a whim, she grasped one and pulled it out to look at the title.

“A Thousand Worlds And One - A Study in Outrealms,” she read. Overcome with curiosity, she turned to the shopkeep. “What’s an Outrealm?” she asked.

Anna gave her a quizzical look. “Ah, well, I, uh, wouldn’t know much about that. But...it’s sort of like a philosophy about how the universe works? You know, how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, that sort of thing?”

Nah returned her look with a blank stare. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said. “Is this a very big pin, or very small angels?”

Anna chuckled. “Okay, let me try and put it like this.” She pulled out a gold coin and held it up for Nah to see. “I flip this coin. It’ll either land on heads, or tails. Right?”

“Right…” Nah responded slowly, clearly still having no idea where this was going.

Anna flipped the coin and caught it. “Heads,” she said, holding it back up. “Now...what if the wind had caught it just ever so slightly to cause one extra rotation, and it landed tails?”

“I don’t know. Does it really matter?”

“Well, what if we had based an important decision on the coin flip? Heads you turn left, tails you turn right. That one gust of wind could end up changing your life forever. In this world, the coin landed heads, you turned left, you walked into a village, met the love of your life, and lived happily ever after. In another world, the coin landed tails, you turned right, walked into a forest, and were mauled by a bear.”

“Shit,” Nah said, unsure of how else to respond.

“Exactly! Some outrealms are total shit. But some are quite nice. That’s bound to happen, though, given how infinite they are.”

Nah looked at the book in her hands, then back up at Anna. “How much for the book?”

Anna held up the coin again. “Tails, it’s on the house. Heads, ten gold pieces. Deal?”

Nah smirked, and nodded. Anna flicked the coin into the air. It tossed and tumbled back down to earth, and then…

“Heads again,” Anna said. “Sorry, kiddo!”

Nah sighed, but fished for her coin purse and pulled out ten coins. “Thanks,” she said. “This is going to make for some fascinating reading…”

Anna smiled and nodded as Nah walked away. When the girl was gone, she looked at the coin in her hand, emblazoned with the same head on each side.

“Works in every reality…”

Nah opened the book and idly flipped through as she walked through the crowd.

The concept was not entirely alien to her. She was aware that the time travel ritual she had gone through with her friends had caused something similar. There had been a crossroads in time at which the events of this world had split - one direction lead to the doomed future that, presumably, no longer existed. The other was the new world they had forged by coming back in time and fighting to successfully defeat Grima.

Some things, of course, hadn’t changed. She had begun to wonder if they weren’t, in a sense, inevitable. The ‘how’ and ‘when’ of death, for example, could be altered, but not the inevitability of death itself.

She had grown up without parents once. Getting to come back in time to meet them had been a blessing...and then they had been taken away again. It almost felt like a cruel jest. Perhaps the Outrealms were mocking her. An infinite number of realities, and in all of them, poor Nah doomed to be an orphan.

She almost laughed at that. A grim cosmic joke with her existence as the punchline. Her father would have appreciated it. Nya ha ha.

She continued forward through the crowd, so engrossed in her reading that she didn’t notice she was about to crash straight into--

“Whoa! E-excuse me,” a nervous voice said, as sharp, bony hands grabbed her shoulders. Her head jolted up, startled out of her reverie.

“What?” she asked, squinting up. Some faint glimmer of recognition dawned. “Erm. You’re that new king, aren’t you? Mark?”

“M-mort, actually,” the king of Plegia corrected her. He gave an awkward smile. “What’s that you’re reading, there?”

“Hm? Oh, it’s...nothing, really. Boring stuff,” Nah said, stuffing the book into her bag.

Mort looked slightly crestfallen, but made a valiant attempt at recovery. “Say, you’re Ylissean, yes? I haven’t really had a chance to meet or befriend any Ylisseans yet…”

Nah, whose fingers had just brushed against her dragonstone, hurriedly withdrew her hand from her bag. “Ylissean? Yes, I supposed you could say that.”

“Great! Uhm. Would you like to come sit with my friends and I for a bit?” Before she could concoct an excuse to decline, Mort had grabbed her arm and was gently but inexorably pulling her through the crowd.

When they reached their destination, Nah found herself at the receiving end of two very different, but equally unsettling gazes. One man, with bare arms as thick as tree trunks crossed in front of his chest, bared his teeth in a gesture of distaste that Nah had never seen presented by a bipedal creature. The other appeared to be attempting to waggle his eyebrows, make a kissy face, and smoulder seductively all at once, creating a chaotic and nauseating whirlwind across his face.

“Don’t mind them,” Mort said, picking up on Nah’s rather obvious discomfort. “Plegia is a harsh land, and as such, tends to breed men who are a bit...rough around the edges.”

Nah wrinkled her nose. “I suspect they’re edges all the way down,” she said, unable to stop herself.

Mort chuckled at this, though he did still look uncomfortable and out of place. It was hard to believe this...kid was a king. He wasn’t even that much younger than Nah herself; maybe a year or two at most. But everything about him, from his posture to his nervous smile, made him look like a kid stuck way over his head.

Nah scanned the crowd. Lucina had been the one that wanted to talk to him. She was the princess - well, sort of. This ought to be her territory. Where the hell was she when you needed her?

 

Inigo smiled at Lucina as she sat down across from him, in the seat Gerome had previously been occupying. He leaned forward, the roulette wheel of vain compliments already spinning in his head, when he noticed how disheveled and nervous she looked.

“Hey, Lucina, need a drink?” he said, in lieu of a flirtatious one liner.

“Yes,” she said, very hurriedly. Inigo grinned and slid over a full mug that was sitting next to him. All night, the mugs he had finished disappeared and fresh ones materialized in their place. He almost thought it odd, but little things like that often happened to him. He had just come to accept his natural good luck.

Lucina quickly downed the beverage without a pause. Inigo was impressed; it was easy to forget, amidst her beauty and royal bearing, that Lucina was as hardcore a fighter as they came. If Inigo had tried to drink that long without interruption he’d have coughed and spluttered for air like a drowning man brought back to life. Though he’d be the first to admit he was a lover, not a fighter.

“Something got you rattled?” he asked, when Lucina placed her mug back on the table.

“Trying to work up the courage to go talk to Mort,” Lucina replied. “We’re not all graced with your, ah...charming confidence.”

Inigo chuckled. “Indeed. Why, I was just indulging these fine ladies over here with my grace and--” he waved his arm to his left, then looked and realized all the women from earlier were gone. “What the...where’d they go!?”

“They left, like, ten minutes ago,” Morgan replied. “About halfway through your story about how you personally brought Emperor Walhart to his knees and made him beg for forgiveness while crying like a baby.”

“But that really happened!” Inigo shot back. Morgan and Lucina both fixed him with stony, incredulous looks. “Okay, obviously it didn’t, but they had no reason to think that! Isn’t trust a virtue anymore? Sheesh.”

Morgan lightly reached out her hand and pushed Inigo on the shoulder, tipping him out of his seat. As he spluttered and ranted from the ground, she turned back to Lucina.

“You’re going to talk to Mort? Did you happen to run into Gerome earlier?”

“Gerome?” Lucina asked. “No. Why?”

“He was looking for you. Must have just missed you.”

“Do you know what he wanted to talk about?”

Morgan gave an awkward cough. Between the emotionally stunted Gerome, the naively innocent Lucina, and the melodramatic Inigo, she sometimes felt like the only one of her friends with any self awareness.

“No,” she lied, and quickly changed the subject. “What did you want to talk to Mort about?”

“I’m not even really sure, to be honest,” Lucina replied. “I guess I just...kind of feel like I have a responsibility to keep everyone safe. It’s all I’ve been doing for so long, I’m not entirely sure how to do anything else. If Mort really is the son of the Mad King, and he really is in charge of Plegia now…” she shook her head. “I just can’t let anyone else die. You know?”

“Yeah,” Morgan said with a slow nod. “I could help, if you wanted...he’s been wanting to talk to me all night, since, y’know...the weird half-sibling thing,” she explained. “I don’t really want to but if it would be easier for us both to go together…”

Lucina shook her head. “I should do this myself. Thanks, though, Morgan.” She reached out and touched her friend’s hand in thanks, and offered a warm smile.

It was around this time, after several moments of intense flailing, that Inigo found his way back up to his seat.

“What’re we doing? Talking to King What’s-His-Face?” he asked.

“What we’re going to do is stay here and not make a scene,” Morgan instructed, placing a firm hand on Inigo’s shoulder.

“Alright...here I go,” Lucina said. She sat there for a moment longer, mentally steeling herself, then got up and made her way back into the crowd.

Inigo watched her go with bleary eyes.

“Why’s she wanna go talk to that Marty guy for, anyway?” he wailed when she was gone.

“His name is Mark,” Morgan corrected.

“It’s Mort,” Nah chimed in, as she made her way over to the table. “I just got away. Something about those guys gives me the creeps.”

“Mart, Marky, whatever his name is,” Inigo huffed. “I don’t like this. Lucina and Gerome should be looking for each other. The Harvest Festival is a night of romance! The warm evening air, the majestic fireworks, the, the, the booze loosening one’s inhibitions…”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Morgan said.

“I meant mine! Sheesh,” Inigo continued. “As I was saying, I have extensive experience romancing women on this magical night, and -- I heard that!” he suddenly snapped at Morgan.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You rolled your eyes!”

“You HEARD me roll my eyes?”

“AS I WAS SAYING, this is a night of romance and the last thing we need is our fair princess being ensnared by the devilish prince of Plegia,” Inigo rolled on, ignoring the protestations of Morgan and Nah. “Now, normally I would use my boundless charm to woo Lucina to my side, and show her a night unlike any she has previously experienced, ow, but as I am Gerome’s faithful companion and best friend, and as he and Lucina have clearly been pining for each other's loins for years, ow, please stop hitting me Morgan, it is only fair that I unite these two incredibly oblivious and awkward lovebirds. It is a heavy burden, being the only one of our group who has any idea how to handle a woman, ow, but it is a burden I carry with grace and aplomb, ow.”

“You really are something, I’ll give you that,” Morgan said with a sigh, giving up hitting Inigo on the arm repeatedly as it was clearly wasted effort. “Did you learn anything interesting talking to him, Nah?”

Nah shrugged. “You had the right idea, earlier, when you pretended to be a Feroxi merchant who had forgotten a box of snakes somewhere, forcing you to run off.” Nah craned her neck to see if she could find Mort or his companions, but could not. As night was falling, not only was visibility getting harder, but the crowd was beginning to consolidate in the center of the field, excited for the final fireworks display of the night.

“And those two guys always flanking him,” Morgan said with a shudder.

“Oh yeah, I got to meet them, too,” Nah said. “That huge guy? His name is apparently ‘Wulf.’”

“Pffft,” Inigo laughed. “Gerome would really appreciate that. Y’know I once heard him refer to himself as a lone wolf that deals only in death?” Inigo reached for yet another clean, full mug nearby, not particularly concerned with how it got there, and took a long sip. “Guy can be a real goober sometimes.”

“The other guy called himself Joab,” Nah recalled with a shudder. “He kept trying to touch my hair.”

“Gross,” Morgan said sympathetically. She and Nah both shared long, silky-white hair. Morgan ran a hand through hers self-consciously. “Did Mort say anything about me?” she asked softly.

Nah gave a half-hearted shrug. “He was kind of beating around the bush. Seemed like he wanted to, but was really nervous about it. Just...weird guy. Not sure why Lucina wanted to talk to him so badly.”

“The foul magic of the Harvest Festival is trying to pull a prince and princess together!” Inigo ranted. He flailed in his seat some more, and nearly fell off once again, except for a well-timed gust of wind that pushed him back up, keeping him safely upright. Goodness, my luck is impeccable this evening, Inigo mused to himself.

Morgan noticed this, and sighed. “Maybe you should go lie down, Inigo? I’m sure Lucina won’t go and fall in love without you there to make sure it’s with the right person.”

“Hey, you know what Mort’s awkwardness reminds me of?” Nah chimed in as Inigo fought against Morgan’s grip. “Inigo, when he realizes people can see him practicing his dancing.”

“Over the line! Over the line!” Inigo yelled as Morgan helped him up out of his seat.

Nah grinned to herself as Morgan helped escort Inigo away.

“Calm down. Stop shouting!” Morgan hissed. “How much did you have to drink tonight?”

“How much?” Inigo asked, blinking a few times. “What unit of measurement are we talkin’ here? Because, uh, several.”

Morgan sighed. “Every time. Every time, Inigo. We’re supposed to be soldiers. Gerome takes it seriously, Lucina takes it seriously--”

“Gerome and Lucina wouldn’t know how to stop being serious if their lives depended on it! That’s why they need to hook up and have litting brooding babies…”

“But not you, Inigo, oh no,” Morgan continued, ignoring him. “No, it’s always cute girls this, and sexy ladies that, and exaggerated stories about fighting off the grim spectre of death in single combat. You do know that half our friends really did die, right?”

Morgan regretted it as soon as she said it.

“Inigo, I--” she began.

“I remember them all every day,” Inigo said softly. “Just because I try to keep smiling doesn’t mean I’m not as broken as the rest of you.”

He felt like he was floating across the grass. Given that Morgan only had a hand on one arm, she must have been much stronger than she looked to be carrying him so effectively. The drink made his head feel warm and fuzzy. He just wanted to sleep. Waking up was optional.

They made it to the cart they had rode in on. The back contained a few hard sleeping bags for those resting in between watch shifts on long journeys. Morgan sat Inigo down on the edge.

“I know,” she said. “I have no right to judge. I don’t remember any of it myself, I just...I just know what I’ve been told. I wish I could remember them...Laurent, Noire, Kjelle…”

Inigo allowed himself a sad smile. “I’ve no end of stories I could tell, not that I’m particularly fit to right now...hey, is that Gerome?”

The shadows parted to reveal Gerome in his black armour. He gave a curt nod to Inigo and Morgan. “Heading in for the night? Before the fireworks? I’m surprised, Inigo.”

“Only ‘cause I can’t feel my legs,” Inigo explained. “Of course, the lovely Morgan is welcome to feel them for me.”

Morgan rolled her eyes, but in a way she was relieved the serious moment had passed. She got far too depressed, thinking about death and despair. This was not a night for such--

“Ladies and gentlemen!” called a voice, so loud and commanding that a hush rippled outwards across the entire festival. Most of those still attending had gathered near the center of the field already, eagerly awaiting the fireworks display, and now what few scragglers were left on the outskirts were heading there as well.

“I would like to thank you all so very much for attending this event!” the voice continued. Inigo squinted through the crowd, and was shocked to realize it was Mort speaking. He sounded so confident, when Nah had repeatedly described him as neurotic and timid.

“Wha’s he doin’?” Inigo asked a tad hesitantly. He noticed Gerome tighten a fist around the hilt of his axe.

“I don’t know,” his friend responded.

“As most of you know, I am Mort, son of Gangrel, and King of Plegia,” Mort called out over the attentive crowd. “But this night is not about me or my country. It is, in many ways, about our neighbor Ylisse. And we have had a tumultuous history, I know.”

Inigo looked around the field. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. If only someone had told him to stop fooling around tonight and take his job as a soldier more seriously! He ignored the small part of his brain that reminded him Gerome had said exactly that.

“As such, before we begin the main event of the night, I would like to welcome a special guest from Ylisse,” Mort went on. “Now, Exalt Chrom could not be here, sadly, but someone no less important did manage to make it.”

Inigo, Gerome, and Morgan all turned to watch as Gerome’s father stood up, proudly saluting the crowd and preparing to go stand by Mort’s side. Donnel had only made it a few steps, however, when Mort continued, apparently ignoring him.

“It is none other than the princess of Ylisse, Lucina.”

Inigo furrowed his brow in confusion. That didn’t make any sense, did it?

Lucina was standing beside Mort and his lackeys, Wulf and Joab. She held herself with poise and dignity, back straight and chin held high. Inigo knew his friend well enough, however, to recognize the distress on her face.

“How does he know?” Gerome grumbled.

“She went to speak to him,” Morgan answered, “but...why would she tell him that? And why would he believe her?”

“Guys?” Inigo called out, but the others ignored him.

“She would have had a good reason,” Gerome said softly, still staring with an intense ferocity at the princess.

“Yes, after many years of strained relations, the royal children of these two great kingdoms are united at last!” Mort continued. “I have long dreamt of this moment. A new age is beginning for all in this realm!”

“Guys?” Inigo tried again. Something was really bothering him.

“Do you hear that?” Morgan said. The sound she was referring to was not Inigo, but the sounds of combat starting to rise from all around them. The clash of metal, the puncture of chainmail, the screams cut off as quickly as they began.

“It’s a trap!” Gerome yelled. “We have to--”

“And now,” Mort yelled, his voice carrying effortlessly over the chaos, “I believe you were all promised a fireworks show!”

He snapped his fingers.

First Inigo saw red, then white, then nothing.

He heard the screams of pain and confusion as a powerful force knocked him backwards into the cart, where he became fiercely entangled with several thick quilts.

Gerome’s voice cut above the rest, screaming Lucina’s name, a scream of pain and fear and rage. Morgan was yelling something too, but he couldn’t understand what. He thrashed and thrashed, but only seemed to trap himself further.

“Men! To me!” That was the General, Donnel. The Ylissean’s had more men, and better trained! What could Mort possibly be hoping to accomplish with this brash betrayal?

Finally, Inigo ripped a hole in the quilts and sat upwards swiftly, just as the cart lurched forward dramatically. He slammed his head into the roof, experienced a moment of intense pain, then slumped backwards, blissfully unaware of anything at all.

 

“Men! To me!”

Nah picked herself up off the ground. Chunks of wood rained down around her from the charred remains of the feasting tables that had been too close to the explosion.

The Harvest Festival field was littered with gore, bodies of those revelers who were dead or swiftly dying. Nah shook her head furiously until the ringing in her ears died down and she could attempt to take some stock of what had happened.

Her eyes went to the spot where the blast had hit - the exact spot Lucina had been standing in. She found nothing but a charred circle in the grass.

Something drifted gently downwards through the warm night air. It was a lock of blue hair. Nah held out a quivering hand and let it land on her palm. She slowly clenched the hand into a fist.

So that was it. Lucina was dead.

“Rally, men! Rally!”

That was the voice of General Donnel. Many Ylissean soldiers had been caught in the blast and were just as disoriented as the civilians. Nah gently pushed herself up to her feet, and moved forward in a daze, her mind hardly aware of what her legs were doing.

“Nah!” Donnel shouted as she approached. His sword was drawn and a force of less than a dozen armed men and women had gathered around him. “Did you see the others? G-Gerome? Are they..?”

Nah slowly shook her head. “Inigo and Morgan got away, I think,” she said softly. “Gerome, I…I have no idea.”

She looked at the heartbreak in his eyes and wished for a moment she were the kind of person who could lie. How easy would it have been to just say it would all be okay?

She looked down at the lock of blue hair in her fist. But it wouldn’t all be okay.

“Sir! The enemy forces with the Plegians, they...they look like Risen!” one soldier shouted as she ran up to the group, panting for breath. Behind her the fighting was getting closer as the mysterious force hacked and slashed their way through anyone still standing.

“There haven’t been any Risen sightings in years!” another soldier protested angrily.

“Listen up!” Donnel yelled, his voice ringing out over the panicking crowd and bringing immediate order. “If there’s one thing I learned in the last war, it’s that if a mysterious crowd of zombies falls out of a sky portal and starts chargin’ ya, you wonder what the hell’s goin on after you’ve stabbed ‘em and gotten to safety!”

Nah reached for her bag. She deposited the lock of blue hair safely inside, then reached for a spellbook. She avoided her dragonstone, knowing it was a bit too volatile for fighting in such a crowded area with panicked civilians and green soldiers about. Small, simple jolts of lightning to fry her enemies, that would do the trick. Yes, she was feeling quite ready to bring some pain down on whoever did this…

“No way are we going to be able to secure the field,” a high-ranking soldier pointed out. “I recommend we pull back, sir.”

Donnel looked torn by this. “But there are still...civilians…” he began, and only Nah knew he meant: my son.

“We’ll be slaughtered if we go in there,” Nah pointed out. “But if we pull back to the forest and use it as cover, we have a chance of making it to Ylisse. They need to be warned.” She locked eyes directly with Donnel and continued, “there are other good fighters out there. They’ll make it out alive.” There, that wasn’t so bad. Lying was fine if it stopped a grown man from going to pieces, right?

“Damnit,” Donnel said, followed by a few other phrases that meant nothing to Nah but had the connotation of a farmer’s curse.

“A donkey’s what, sir?” one of the younger soldiers asked.

“Never mind. Come on! Make for the trees! Kill any Risen or Plegian or whatever that tries to get in your way!”

And so they fought, the ragtag band of survivors, for reasons they could not yet fathom. Most of the soldiers were equipped with shoddy iron swords or bows, and few knew techniques more advanced than “stick pointy end into bad guy.” The exception being Donnel and Nah herself. Nah, in addition to being half-Manakete, a fact that she tried not to make too terribly obvious around civilians, was also a fairly competent mage. With tome in hand, lightning and fire flung outwards any time an opening presented itself, frying the ever encroaching horde of hostiles in its path.

Even she was a novice compared to Donnel, though. The General had been trained by prince Chrom himself during his teenage years. He had a natural aptitude, and now seemed to be in peak physical condition. Nah wasn’t sure how old he was now - in fact, Donnel wasn’t sure either, having come from a village where being able to count beyond your fingers and toes was seen as superfluous. She could tell, however, that for a human he was still young and spritely, able to push his body as far as it could go.

He was not a general who led from behind. He darted through the fray, cutting down Risen several at a time, his sword arm moving like a blur. Nah watched with admiration, remembering to shoot a spell through any opening he left.

Most of the other soldiers were greener than the grass they trod on, clutching their weapons the wrong way, thrusting them forward with stiff and awkward movements. Every now and again, with Donnel preoccupied against several foes already, a Risen would slip through and cut down an Ylissean with brutal swiftness before being ganged up on by the rest of the crowd.

Their numbers continued to dwindle as they reached the forest. Nah’s eyes darted around, watching as they became increasingly flanked on the left and right.

She stumbled over a body, but managed to catch herself. Looking down, she saw it was a soldier - in the Plegian uniform. By all appearances they had been cut down by the Risen as well, not an Ylissean.

“Sir,” she said, panting for breath from all the exertion. “I don’t think the Plegians were behind this attack.”

Donnel gave a disinterested shrug. “We can worry about that later, Nah.” He gave a worried look at the few remaining soldiers still standing beside them. “Come on, you guys! You gonna let a few uppity skeletons get the better of you?” he yelled, hoping to rally some spirit.

But the spirit was gone. They were outnumbered at least a hundred to one. They were exhausted.

Nah craned her head around. The thick treeline of the forest was maybe 100 feet away.

Donnel seemed to notice the same thing. “Men, on my count, we run for the trees,” he yelled. “One…”

The few remaining soldiers gripped their weapons tightly, sweat and grime staining their faces.

“Two…!”

Nah clutched her spellbook so hard she felt it might rip in half. She had been in this position before, in a dark future that no longer existed, staring down an endless horde of Risen with no hope of salvation.

Had that future come once again? Despite the best efforts of Lucina and their ragtag band...had nothing changed?

“Count!”

The group turned and ran, most of the soldiers throwing their weapons onto the ground to gain some speed. Nah darted well ahead of the others, not stopping to turn around as she heard the whiz of arrows fired after them or the blood-curdling screams of soldiers hit, falling to the ground.

She didn’t stop until she was well beyond the edge of the forest. Finally she paused to catch her breath, leaning against a heavy oak trunk, fighting down gulps of air and trying not to vomit. She jumped as she heard rustling through the woods, but it was only Donnel and two soldiers - an older lieutenant, and a young corporal.

“Damn, damn, damn,” Donnel gasped.

“Are we the only ones who made it?” Nah asked, peering through the dark to see if any others were behind them. Night had well and truly fallen now, and the heavy foliage didn’t help visibility.

“We have to make it to Ylisse to warn them,” Donnel said, ignoring her. “Whoever summoned these Risen must have known what a perfect time it is for an invasion, with Chrom and the royal guard stuck in Ferox, and Frederick and Cordelia leading half the army in rebuilding efforts across Valm. Our only hope is to get there first and start setting up for a siege until--”

Nah saw the torchlight in the distance, and yelled, “they’re coming--” just as an arrow cut through the foliage and burst through the back of the old lieutenant’s head.

“Move!” Donnel screamed. Fire seemed to be catching. The Risen were burning them out.

Nah moved, bobbing and weaving through the overgrown brush, spotting a clearing up ahead. If she could make it to that opening, perhaps she could get her dragonstone and…

She crashed through into the clearing, ignoring the pain as nettles and branches slashed at her exposed legs and face.

She turned and saw Donnel jump out from behind her. The young corporal appeared for a moment, but then let out a yelp and was dragged backwards. His yelp turned into a gurgle.

Nah turned to run again, but only got a few feet before she realized something was wrong. She turned back around and saw Donnel standing still, sword in hand, looking back the way they came.

“Donnel?” she called. “General!”

“Nah,” he said. “Get to Ylisse. Warn them.”

“Yes, that’s the plan,” she responded. “We’re going to make it to Ylisse and--”

“We can’t just let them keep taking potshots at our retreating rear ends!” Donnel shouted. “Go!”

The reality of what was happening began to penetrate Nah’s adrenaline-filled consciousness. She took a few steps towards him, but he growled in a very un-Donnel like manner.

“If we both fall, so does Ylisse,” he snapped. “This is an order. Go!”

The Risen broke through into the clearing, weapons drawn, morose grins stretched across their grotesque faces.

Donnel stepped forward, swinging his sword in the air before him. “Which one of you overgrown manure heaps wants to go first, eh?”

Nah turned and ran, tears filling her eyes. When she reached the other end of the clearing, she crouched in the darkness and watched as Donnel dispatched four Risen, making it look almost effortless.

But they kept coming. Each one that went down made way for two others to crawl out of the burning forest behind them. Nah knew she needed to be running, but she couldn’t look away. She clung to the tree beside her.

Donnel sidestepped a Risen with a spear and cut it down in one fluid motion. Another Risen got behind him, however, and dragged a sword down his back. He cried out in pain and stumbled forward, before spinning around and severing that Risen’s head from it’s body.

He continued to move backwards, parrying blows and striking out where he could, but his movements became slower, sloppier. Another spear broke through his defenses, sliding through gaps in his leather armour and drawing blood from his hip.

Donnel grabbed the weapon and ripped it out, throwing it onto the grass. Blood poured from him freely. Yet still he fought like a man possessed, cutting down three more Risen before an arrow shot through the crowd and hit his left leg above the knee. He tumbled and fell into a kneeling position, leaning on his sword, which was nearly unrecognizable from the gore caked onto it.

Another figure came through the shadows of the forest. The fire blazing behind him gave him the appearance of a monster straight from the worst circle of hell.

The Risen moved aside as Wulf strode across the clearing to where Donnel knelt. He reached behind him and unstrapped his massive battle axe, which looked to be bigger than Nah’s entire body.

Donnel looked up at Wulf. Nah held her breath, straining to hear.

“Huh,” Donnel said, through gritted teeth. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

Wulf gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Yes.”

There was a moment of such severe silence that even the night air seemed to be standing perfectly still.

“Well? Going to get on with it?” Donnel asked.

Wulf shrugged. “Weak,” he said, and brought his axe down, down, down…

Nah turned and ran.

 

When Gerome had come back in time, he had brought his best friend with him. Not Inigo, though it would pain the young man to hear it. Gerome had grown up in the care of his mother’s wyvern, Minerva. However, she had been getting old, and another version of her already existed in this timeline. After the defeat of Grima, Gerome brought the Minerva of his time to Wyvern Valley and set her free. She deserved to die as herself, rather than remain in limbo, trapped in a world that didn’t belong to her.

Yes, he realized the irony of this mindset.

In lieu of a wyvern, Lucina and her father saw fit to reward him with a royal griffon for his efforts in the war. Gerome named the griffon Michalis and cared for him now, and had, despite himself, grown quite fond of the big feathered beast. He knew Minerva would always hold an irreplaceable spot in his heart, but it felt good to fly through the air like old times.

Luckily, Michalis had been brought with them to the festival. Gerome charged in a rage towards the mooring where the griffon was tied up, his axe flying through the air as if of its own volition, cutting down those in his way.

Some were Risen, who put up a pathetic attempt to stop him. Others were Plegians, who seemed to be nervously backing away or crying for help. In his furious state of mind, Gerome noted no difference. They all fell before him.

He could hear Morgan yelling after him, but eventually her shouts stopped. If she were smart, she would get herself and Inigo away and to safety.

For his part, he was not a smart man. But he could kill, and kill well. Those who had just torn Lucina away from him would pay.

With a trail of fresh bodies behind him, Gerome leapt through the air and onto Michalis’ back. He kicked the griffon to spur him into action, bringing his axe down to sever the tether in one clean cut.

Soon they were soaring through the air over the crowd. Where had all these Risen come from? There were hundreds, rampaging through the fairgrounds. Surely someone would have noticed an army that large lurking in the woods nearby? How could they have been caught so terribly unawares?

The Risen didn’t matter, though. He could slaughter every last one of them and it would mean nothing. No, he knew exactly who had done this.

Plegia. That new king. Mort.

Yet the young king was nowhere to be seen. The spot where he had summoned the blast of fire was clearly marked, but no body of his or Lucina’s was visible. It was all Risen, and the rapidly dying Ylissean revelers falling before them.

No, wait...there was one man, standing amidst the Risen, laughing a smug laugh that made Gerome’s blood boil even more. It was that greasy looking retainer to Mort. 

Joab glanced up, Gerome and Michalis apparently catching his eye. He reached behind him and swung his bow around, drawing an arrow with impressive speed. Despite his bloodlust, Gerome knew that an arrow through the wing or soft underbelly of his griffon would end this battle before it had even begun. Spurring Michalis, he began to fly in an erratic circular pattern as he wove his way downward.

As planned, the first arrow whizzed through the air where he would have been mere seconds previously. Joab had a second arrow ready to go nearly as soon as the first had left the bow; Gerome spurred Michalis once more in the opposite direction, throwing off the Plegian’s aim once more. He continued to dive downwards, closer, closer…

A third arrow was drawn, the bow pulled back…

Gerome lashed out with his axe, knocking the arrow aside and slicing through the bow, rending it into pieces and knocking Joab backwards onto his ass.

Michalis rapidly pulled back up before hitting the ground, and Gerome allowed himself a moment to feel smug. That was one creep out of commission, but it wasn’t enough. There was no way Mort simply allowed himself to be incinerated; he was around here somewhere.

Another figure caught his eye. The huge Plegian, Wulf, was moving towards the dense woods to the east, massive axe drawn. A crowd of Risen surrounded him, most armed, some equipped with torches. As they moved into the forest, they began to set fire to it behind them.

Gerome spurred Michalis to speed up, eager to make a strike at Wulf before he disappeared into the dense foliage. When it became clear he was too far away, he made a bold decision.

“HEY!” he screamed. Dozens of Risen turned to look up at him, as did Wulf.

Wulf looked vaguely annoyed, and shrugged. He turned back around and made his way into the forest.

“COWARD!” Gerome screamed, then an odd sinking sensation came over him. Quite literally - he was losing altitude, and fast.

In his rage, he had not heard the yelp of his griffon over the sound of his own yells. Whipping his head around, Gerome saw Joab standing with another bow in hand, smirking that infuriating smirk.

Gerome kicked his heels into Michalis, but it was no good. The griffon valiantly pumped his wings to stay afloat, but down they went, down, down, down…

Wulf was gone from sight. Any Ylisseans still alive had long fled. Aside from the bodies strewn on the ground, all he saw was Risen. An endless sea of them.

He braced for impact, and hit the trees.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nah runs to Ylisstol to warn of the approaching Risen. Libra rallies the surrounding villages. Young Lucina is equal parts cute and annoying. Gaius has a plan.

Chapter 2  
Time - Early Morning, 1 day after the Harvest Festival  
Place - Ylisstol Forest, just outside the capital

The stars were beginning to fade in the pale, pink light of early morning.

Nah could not begin to guess how she was still moving forward. She had been running for hours. She had stopped to throw up a few times, but she seemed to be past that now. She avoided grabbing her dragonstone; too many Risen still patrolled these woods. Better to dart through the shadows than barrel through as the most conspicuous creature on the continent.

She knew she was still heading in the right direction, a fact now reinforced by the slowly rising sun. It would be dawn soon. The bulk of the army would hit Ylisstol soon after.

She had not seen another living soul for the rest of the evening. If any others made it out of the festival grounds alive, they had either been forced in the wrong direction, or were well ahead of her. She prayed for the latter.

A series of small villages dotted the open plains around the bustling capital of Ylisstol. They were a nice middle-ground between the hustle and bustle of the big city, and the more isolated farming villages on the outskirts of Ylisse, such as where Donnel had come from.

Things seemed as quiet and serene as you’d normally hope for at this time of day, with only a few farmers up and about, preparing to start their work for the day. Everyone else seemed bundled up in their cozy houses. Welcoming tendrils of smoke wafted up from chimneys.

This was bad. If anyone had made it here before her, the entire countryside would be in an uproar as families were hastily evacuated into the more easily defensible city. The peace and quiet meant they were entirely unaware of the horror heading straight for them.

Her first thought was to start screaming at the top of her lungs, running from homestead to homestead and ordering people to grab only the essentials and head for the city. Thankfully common sense took hold rather quickly.

Who was she? At first glance she was just a little kid, dressed like a street urchin at best or a dangerous vagrant at worst. She wasn’t Nah, daughter of Nowi and Henry, venerated heroes of Ylisse who had died in the final battle against Grima. That girl was an infant child.

No, she was Nah...mercenary with no family, homeland, or past to speak of. Everything she had been in that other time no longer existed. She held no clout, no influence, no credibility. If she ran around screaming of an invasion she would be thrown in a county jail for disturbing the peace, with a nice view for the impending devastation.

As loathe as she was to admit it, she’d need help. And even more loathingly, she knew where to find it.

 

She knocked aggressively on the large wooden door. It was still too early for most to be out of bed, but she had a feeling this old family friend would already be awake and dressed, preparing for morning prayer and meditation.

“Libra!” she called, as she continued hammering on the door to Lady Naga’s Home for Temporarily Displaced Children, the best, if most awkwardly named, orphanage in Ylisse. “Open up! It’s important!”

She crossed her arms and stood there, bouncing on her heels, waiting impatiently for a response. Despite how exhausted she was, her nerves were making her unbearably jittery.

After what felt like hours but was closer to a minute, she could hear a shuffling sound from behind the door. A chain was unlatched, and it creaked open. A weary face shrouded in long, flowing blonde hair peeked out at her.

“Nah?” he said, his eyes widening with surprise. “You don’t normally come visit...is something the matter?”

He opened the door wider, and Nah hurriedly stepped inside. She realized she must look particularly deranged, still caked in the sweat and dirt of the mad flight here.

“We need to evacuate all the villages into the city,” she blurted out. “There’s no time to explain in full, but something terrible happened at the Harvest Festival, the Risen are back somehow, and hundreds of them are heading this way. Please, for the love of every God you can think of and I know that’s a lot, just believe me and start helping!”

Libra was silent for only a moment before nodding. “I’ll get my coat and sandals on,” he said. “Wait here.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Nah gasped with relief as he bustled into a different room. It sounded crazy, but the people she had fought in the previous war with were used to crazy. And those who were originally from this time were well known as heroes and leaders. People would listen to them. Hopefully.

She turned around and screamed.

“Hi,” said Lucina.

At only six years old, the young Lucina of this timeline was already a spitting image of the Lucina from the future. She was much shorter, obviously, and her face was much rounder and wide-eyed, but she possessed the sharp, regal expression and flowing blue hair that was so iconic of her heritage. She wore an elegant blue dress, similar in style and colour palette to the armour Lucina wore in combat.

“Er,” Nah stammered. She wasn’t good with kids. The fact that she technically still was one herself notwithstanding.

“You look like my friend Nah,” Lucina said, with the unabashed cheerfulness of most people her age. “You’ve both got pretty white hair, and funny ears. Why are your ears so funny? I asked Nah that but she’s still practically a baby and doesn’t know anything.”

Nah opened and shut her mouth a few times. She would have to tread carefully here.

“I’m glad you think my hair is pretty,” she settled on. “I think yours is pretty, too.”

“Thank you,” Lucina said, giving a polite curtsy. “Do you think it would look good in pigtails? My mom does hers in pigtails.”

Nah let out a silent prayer for short attention spans.

“I think it would look lovely,” she answered with a nervous smile.

“Oops, I’m supposed to introduce myself when I make a new friend!” Lucina suddenly gasped. “I am Lucina,” she said, with another curtsy. She seemed to enjoy doing curtsies. It was, on the whole, a very princess thing to do.

“Of course I know who you are,” Nah responded, in the hopes that this would deflect the conversation from working its way back to her identity. “I can see the Brand of the Exalt in your eye.”

Lucina blushed at that. “It would be nice if people didn’t already know who I was for once,” she said.

“Sorry.” Nah coughed. C’mon, Libra, how long did it take to find some sandals?

“Are you an orphan?”

Nah jolted at that. “Huh?”

“Are you here to join the orphanage? I’m not an orphan, but Libra is friends with my parents so they bring me here sometimes to play with kids my own age. They’re in,” here she paused to carefully recite the stranger words, “Reg-na Fer-ox, but they said it was too dangerous for me to come. And then there was a big festival only a few hours away but Libra said that would be too dangerous! Being a little kid stinks.”

Nah gulped, and knelt down slightly to bring herself face-to-face with the child. Admittedly, she didn’t have to go far; she was hardly much taller.

“Lucina,” she said slowly, “are you good at running?”

“I’m pretty fast. Not as fast as my cousin Owain, though, who likes to chase me and put worms in my hair. But one day I won’t have to run, I’ll just beat him up.”

Nah smiled, but kept going. “We may have to do some running soon, okay? But just stay close to me, no matter what, and I’ll keep you safe.”

Lucina’s brow furrowed. “Is something wrong?”

Libra finally rejoined them. He had his coat, he had his sandals, and he had a large sword in a hilt strapped across his back.

In his arms was young Nah. Several other small children clustered around his legs, each one as wide-eyed and pink-cheeked as the last. Nah couldn’t help but shudder.

The young Nah gave her a brief glance, before turning away and burying her face in Libra’s long hair. She was a shy girl, just as Nah had been...wait, what a stupid thing to think, Nah chided herself. This was exactly why none of them liked the idea of spending time with their younger selves.

“I see you’ve met Lucina,” Libra said, with just a hint of irony only he and Nah would notice. “Are you ready?”

Nah gave a determined nod, and before she knew it, the younger version of herself was being thrust upon her.

“Then I need you to take the kids into the city,” Libra continued. “I know the local village leaders, peacekeepers, tavern owners -- the ones people listen to. They’ll help me round up as many as we can for evacuation.”

Nah grimaced as the sea of children moved from Libra over to her, but nodded again.

“Severa is in charge of the city guard while her parents are in Valm. There’s not many soldiers, but they should be able to help usher in the evacuees. If you can find the prince and princess wandering around, I’m sure they’ll help, too.”

With Chrom and Maribelle out of the city, and their daughter too young to rule in their stead, the city was currently held by Chrom’s younger sister Lissa and her husband, prince Gaius. Despite their royal status, they were notoriously hard to pin down, constantly slipping off to carouse about with the common folk. Nah felt sorry for them; people would be looking to them for guidance in the trying days ahead.

“We’ll find somewhere to meet up once we’re safely in the city, I’m sure,” Libra said. “Curiosity has, I admit, consumed a small part of me.”

“I’m really sorry for all this,” Nah said, trying to ignore one of the kids grabbing at her hair. “Thank you so much for believing me.”

“We’ve been through the crucible before, you and I,” Libra said in a lofty, almost ethereal tone of voice. “We survived because of the trust instilled upon us by Chrom and Robin. If we are to survive without their help, we will need to hold onto that trust. Now go!”

“Come on, kids!” Nah yelled, in a stern voice that she hoped would brook no argument. “Everyone find a buddy and hold hands! Yes, even you in the back! I’m not kidding around!”

 

It was a few hours on foot to get to the front gates of Ylisstol, and it took all of Nah’s battle-hardened mental fortitude not to go completely berserk.

The children ran circles around her, bobbed and weaved off the main path, pretended to have each other’s names, switched buddies faster than Nah could keep track of, and loudly babbled about the least interesting subjects imaginable. The only two that were even slightly bearable were Young Nah, who clung to her sullen and silent the entire trip, and Lucina, who made a largely ineffective but nonetheless adorable display at trying to maintain order.

“C’mon, everyone, stick to the road! I know, we can sing a marching song!” Lucina called out. “Oh, there once was an ocean with grey waves~~”

“I don’t think singing is necessary,” Nah snapped, but quickly added in a gentler voice, “we’re almost there.”

Indeed, by the grace of all that was good, they were almost there. The open, welcoming gates of Ylisstol unfolded before them.

The previous Exalt, Emmeryn, had instituted a very welcoming policy towards outsiders. Chrom had maintained this policy when he took over, and as such only a token honour guard stood watch by the front gates. They looked slightly perturbed by the group of small children led by the slightly larger child, but did not move to block them entry.

“Hello!” Nah called out, as she approached. “I have some, uh...kids to drop off?”

The guards exchanged sidelong glances.

“Dropping them off...anywhere in particular?” one of them asked. Nah had to admit she hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“What the heck is all this?” came a shrill voice from somewhere out of sight. Nah smiled with relief. That annoyed tone was music to her ears.

Severa, Captain of the Ylisstol city guard, came out from her station, resplendent in heavy plate armour, her long black pigtails streaming behind her. She crossed her arms across her chest.

“Who let all these kids wander around without supervision? We’re not a damn daycare! Shoo, go back to your mommies and...Nah!?”

Nah gently put the younger version of herself down to the ground, where young Lucina took hold of her hand. Nah then charged forwards and caught Severa in a hug.

“Gah! Yeah, good to see you too, twerp! You’re gonna smudge my armour!” Severa chided, but without fighting to free herself. With Severa, it was all about finding the deeper meaning within the insults.

“Can your men get all these kids somewhere safe?” Nah asked in a hushed whisper. “We need to talk. It’s urgent.” 

Severa gave her a funny look, then nodded. “Hey, lunkheads! Find these kids some ice cream or something! Go on! Move it, move it!” she yelled, until the two guards, confused and agitated, had grabbed a half dozen kids each and rushed off into the city.

Severa then motioned for Nah to join her inside her office affixed to the side of the front gates. It was small and cramped, barely big enough for two people, though that may have been because of the copious amounts of paperwork lying around everywhere. That seemed to be a part of the job Severa was not overly fond of.

The Captain sat down behind her desk, and, after shoving a stack of documents labeled “urgent” onto the ground, motioned for Nah to sit across from her.

“So, what brings you back to the city so soon? And...after having adopted a dozen kids? Including your and Lucina’s younger selves..? Am I getting all this right?” Severa asked, giving Nah a quizzical but still rather light-hearted look.

“Something happened at the Harvest Festival,” Nah said quietly. She placed her bag on her lap and began rummaging around in it.

“Something bad?” Severa asked, a hint of nervousness creeping into her voice as she noticed how serious Nah had gotten.

“Lucina is dead.”

“Hah!” Severa yelped, before she could stop herself. “What!? Lucina isn’t dead, Nah. She’s not the dying type.”

Nah found what she had been digging around for in her bag. She held out the single strand of blue hair.

Severa looked at it for a moment, before saying, “so what?”

“I saw it happen, Severa,” Nah continued, feeling anger beginning to boil inside her. “Lucina is dead, Donnel is dead, dozens if not hundreds of Ylissean soldiers and civilians, I didn’t see what happened to Gerome, Inigo, or Morgan--”

“So who did all this?” Severa asked, still sounding as if she wasn’t entirely convinced this wasn’t some elaborate prank. “The Plegians?”

Nah paused. “I’ve been wondering about that all night,” she answered. “I assumed so at first, but then I saw some Plegian guards who looked to have been cut down just as viciously. Someone summoned an army of Risen, and I think they wanted Ylisseans and Plegians dead alike.”

“Risen!?” Severa snapped. “This...okay. Let me just see if I’ve got all this. A bunch of Risen showed up at the Harvest Festival, killed a bunch of people including Lucina and Donnel, and...then what? You just ran here?”

“Yes,” Nah answered. “And the Risen were following me, along with some...I think they were Plegians, but I’m not actually sure.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. They’re coming, Severa. Libra is helping evacuate the villages. We need to get everyone into the city and prepare for a siege.”

“You’re killing me here, Nah,” Severa groaned, rubbing her temples with both hands. “A siege? We don’t have the manpower! Mom and dad -- er, Ser Frederick and Lady Cordelia,” Severa hastily corrected herself, rolling her eyes, “have half the army with them in Valm. Chrom and his guards are trapped behind a blizzard in Regna Ferox. Who is supposed to lead this siege? Who is going to fight in it?”

“Libra said Gaius and Lissa could help,” Nah suggested. “Do you know where to find them?”

“Okay, great, so two fighters,” Severa snapped. “They’re great, you know I love them, but they’re not exactly leaders of men. We need someone to rally the people if we’re going to survive a siege of Risen! Someone like Chrom, or...Lucina…”

They both fell silent. Nah watched Severa as everything they had discussed these past few minutes slowly sank in.

“Is this really happening?” the Captain of the Guard asked, her eyes growing large and watery. “This all sounds like...like some sick joke.”

“Do you trust me, Severa?” Nah asked, quietly but firmly.

“Of course,” Severa said, wiping a hand across her eyes. “Always. All of us have been through so much. Surviving in our dead future. Travelling back here just to fight in another war. I’ll always trust all of you. ...I just thought maybe we’d finally earned some peace.” To her own surprise, she chuckled. “Stupid of me, huh?”

“Maybe,” Nah said with a shrug. “Maybe we don’t get to have peace. But...Lucina would want us to keep fighting for it, wouldn’t she?”

The two old friends sat in silence across from each other, lost in their emotions. They only shook from their reverie when a chorus of voices started to rise up from outside the city gates.

“Sounds like Libra,” Nah stated to ease Severa’s suddenly nervous look. Nonetheless, the Captain of the Guard grabbed her impeccably cleaned and sharpened sword before heading outside.

By the time they got back to the courtyard, pandemonium had begun to unfold. Libra stood in the center, waving his arms in a valiant but ultimately futile attempt to get everyone to remain calm. Around him, hundreds of villagers - many of them children and elderly - clamored in a panic and bustled about searching for separated family members.

“Remain calm!” Libra shouted. “The city walls are well defended, and we will all be perfectly safe here!”

No one seemed to be listening to him, which was just as well, for when Severa and Nah reached him, Severa snapped, “that’s not true at all! We’re short staffed everywhere! Can ANY of these hillbillies fight?”

“There may be a few strong young men and women about, but on the whole...no,” Libra admitted. “They’re not here to protect, Severa, they’re here to be protected. We need order and stability. Someone they may actually believe when they say it will all be okay. ...No matter how true that may be,” he added.

Severa grumbled and crossed her arms across her chest. “Well, I can tell you right now, I won’t make it three sentences without losing my temper at these people,” she mumbled, glaring at the crowds around them. One man was frantically running in circles, trying to catch and hold three chickens all at once.

“We need Gaius and Lissa,” Nah said. “They may not be Chrom, but...well...we need to do something.”

“Severa and I will stay here and try to keep everyone calm,” Libra said. Severa looked about to object, but the priest gave her a look that silenced her. “Nah, find them and bring them here. We need to start addressing the people, let them know what they’re in for.”

Nah gave a nod. “Understood. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” As she turned to leave she saw yet another wave of villagers making their way to the city gates. Hundreds of people. Hungry people, scared people. If they weren’t ready when the Risen hit...it would be a bloodbath many times worse than the Harvest Festival.

Thankfully, she had a good idea where to go to find Gaius and Lissa. All of the heroes who had fought against Grima maintained a tight-knit connection with each other. Find one, and you would find more.

Unfortunately, she also knew who lived closest to the front gates. This was a conversation she would need to have, but one she had been selfishly hoping she could put off until things calmed down. Of course, calm didn’t actually seem to be anywhere in her future.

She wound her way towards a residential district, a very nice segment of the city with large, elegant homes and clean, red-brick roads. While it wasn’t quite the royal palace, it was a stark contrast to the villages and markets elsewhere in Ylisstol.

She knew the house when she saw it. She paused for a moment, took a few deep breaths, walked up the stone pathway to the front door, and knocked.

It took a moment, but she heard a latch slide back, then saw the door open and the bright, smiling face of Cherche.

Young Gerome, shy and quiet, his hair shaggy and unkempt, peaked out from behind her legs.

“Nah?” she asked, blinking with confusion in the morning light. Cherche was a fierce and dedicated warrior. Nah couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen her without an axe in hand or her loyal wyvern, Minerva, by her side. Seeing her now, in a nightgown and with messy hair, was strangely unsettling.

The mob of voices continued to pick up as more refugees poured into the city. Hearing this, Cherche gave Nah a concerned look. “What’s going on? Is something happening?”

“Cherche,” Nah said slowly, tears already welling in her eyes. “Can I come in?”

 

She was unsure how much time had passed by the time she left. The sun had risen a bit higher, but it still appeared to be morning.

Cherche had taken the news...well, as far as Nah could tell. She hadn’t collapsed into a sobbing mess, or anything. She had simply asked Gerome to wait in another room, then sat at a kitchen table across from Nah and listened to the story. Her posture remained strong, her expression calm and understanding.

She had thanked Nah for telling her that her husband was dead. That was thanks she could have done without.

Nah thought back to that fateful day, years ago, when the dragon Grima had finally been defeated. It wasn’t long into the rush of excitement and joy over a hard-fought victory that Nah discovered her parents had both perished in the fighting. They were found together, side by side until the end, looking oddly peaceful despite the violent nature of their deaths.

Chrom had told Nah that they had died for a better future, so that both she and the younger Nah, only a few months old at the time, could know peace.

Nah would have preferred to have known her parents better. That made twice they had been torn from her, once in their dead future and once here. It had all seemed so unfair. Rage consumed her, but she no longer had a great enemy to focus that energy against. She had settled for destroying some furniture, which, admittedly, had helped a bit. Perhaps Cherche was back there now, unafraid to let her true feelings show, as she took a battleaxe to that nice kitchen table.

Lost in these thoughts, she didn’t immediately realize she was no longer walking alone.

“I forgot to ask your name earlier,” Lucina said, walking briskly to keep up with Nah’s longer stride. “You knew I was Lucina but I still don’t know who you are! Uncle Gaius tells me sometimes that I need to work on my princess-ly manners.”

Nah looked down at the young girl, not fully registering what she had said for a moment. “Lucina..? What are you doing here? Why aren’t you with the other kids?”

“I’m not a baby! I can get around my own city without any help,” she said, assuming an expression of adorable poutiness. “And you didn’t answer the question! You have to do whatever a princess tells you to! Well, dad says that’s not true, but it really feels like it ought to be!”

Nah fished around for some further excuse to deny her identity. This girl knew Nah - the real Nah, the one who belonged in this timeline. And it wasn’t exactly a common name she could claim to share…

“Nowi,” she blurted out, before realizing she had settled on it. “My name is Nowi.”

“Nice to meet you, Nowi. Where are we going?” Lucina asked, without missing a beat.

“I’m going to find your uncle Gaius and aunt Lissa,” Nah answered. “And you’re going to go back to where the rest of the children are being watched over, before a poor guard realizes he lost you and has a panic attack.”

“Ooh, I know where they are!” Lucina explained, thoroughly ignoring the second half of Nah’s sentence. “C’mon, Nowi, follow me!”

And she was off like a tiny blue streak of lightning, without pausing for even a moment to see if Nah was following.

Nah sighed, and started running, not wanting to lose sight of the young princess.

She was normally quite fast herself, but it didn’t take long before her body started reminding her that she hadn’t yet slept, and had spent most of the night and morning alternating between running and throwing up. Lucina was ahead, always too far ahead to catch, occasionally calling out, “Come on, Nowi! Come on!”

Nah felt herself enter a haze. It was so similar to the old days, back in that dead timeline, running ahead of her mother, calling out to her...come on, Nowi, come on…

She had been very young when her parents had died the first time, perhaps younger than Lucina was now. She hardly remembered anything except for these brief flashes of playtime, which came to her like dreams, more difficult to focus on the harder she tried.

She thought of the book in her bag, A Thousand Worlds and One. She had now lived in two timelines, and in both Nowi had been doomed to die, as had her husband Henry. Nah had barely gotten to know either. Was there truly a universe out there where a young Nah could run, chased by her mother, for years and years without the family violently ripping apart?

Heads or tails. Go down one path, get mauled by a bear. Go down a different path, get mauled by a different bear.

She looked up, and Lucina was gone. In a panic, Nah spun around, looking for any sign of the young girl. She had apparently been led into a bustling market district in one of the more lower-income sections of the city. Many of the people wandering around here didn’t exactly look like model 9-to-5 employees. Merchants at stalls advertised “meat,” guaranteed from “an animal.”

“Lucina?” Nah called out, spinning, feeling weak, feeling sick. If this didn’t work, if the city fell, young Lucina would die, just like--

“Nah!” someone said, firmly but not unkindly, reaching out to steady her as she began to faint. “Steady, girl.”

Nah watched the colours swirl around her until they gently rearranged themselves back into their proper places, forming the concerned, ruggedly handsome face of prince Gaius. “Not a good place to take a nap, if you value your coinpurse and kidneys staying where you left ‘em. Mostly kidding, but, still...see, you dropped your bag there…”

“I’ve got it,” Nah said quickly, bending over to pick her bag back up. It felt very heavy, but she tried not to show how weak she apparently was. She hated the idea of coming across as some helpless child.

“Alright, alright, calm down,” Gaius said with a smirk. “What’s the problem?”

“What isn’t the problem!?” Nah snapped, before calming herself down. “Sorry, it’s been a...long day.”

“Hey, don’t worry, I get it,” the prince responded, shrugging. “Seriously, don’t get all ‘ooh, he’s a royal prince now, can’t go showing natural emotions to him! Gotta be all prim and proper at all times, la la laaa.’”

“Okay,” Nah said, “bad shit happened at the Harvest Festival, Gaius.” She dove into the story as quickly as she could. Gaius stood there, taking it all in.

“Lucina…” he muttered, when she got to that part. As Lucina’s uncle, he had grown very close to the young girl - and even the version from the future had turned to him for friendship and guidance more than once. “And Donnel, too. That damn bumpkin kicked my ass around the training yard more than once, I’m not ashamed to say.”

“And the army is headed this way,” Nah finished. “Severa and Libra are at the front gates helping usher in refugees from the villages. Lucina - er, the young Lucina - was leading me to find you. With Chrom gone, you’re...well, you’re the closest thing they’ve got to a leader right now.”

Gaius let out a long, heavy sigh. “Somewhere, deep inside, I always knew marrying a princess was a dumb idea. Stupid, sexy Lissa.”

“We should get back there now,” Nah insisted. “I don’t know how long we have until--”

An alarm began blaring, loud and irritating, pushing in from all around them. Panicked chatter tore through the marketplace as those not yet aware of the situation began to gossip with each other about what could possibly be happening.

“That’s...not great,” Gaius said, slowly.

“WHAT?” Nah yelled.

“I SAID THAT IS NOT GREAT, IN A SARCASTIC TONE OF VOICE,” Gaius yelled.

“RIGHT, SORRY,” Nah yelled.

Gaius grabbed her firmly by the wrist. “Come on,” he said, and this time he was close enough that Nah could understand. He began to lead her rapidly through a narrow alleyway.

“Where are we going?” she asked. They seemed to be moving away from the alarm, as it was becoming slightly muffled, at least to the point of not being physically painful anymore.

“Parapets,” Gaius answered. “I know a shortcut.”

Many people were exiting their homes or whatever tavern they had been stewing in, stepping into the daylight to look around in confusion for the source of the alarm. Gaius expertly bobbed and weaved through them, while Nah smacked into a couple of people, awkwardly apologizing. She kept her eyes peeled for Lucina, though the young girl was still nowhere to be found.

“Up here!” Gaius commanded, as they reached a stone stairwell leading up the side of the walls that surrounded the city. He took them two at a time; Nah was amazed she didn’t stumble downwards and break her neck.

Aside from the palace, there weren’t too many huge buildings in Ylisstol. From the top of the walls, Nah could see much of the city sprawled out beneath her; the streets were thronged with people, some already panicking, most just confused. There, over by the gates, she could make out the glinting armour of Severa and the blonde mane of Libra.

And past them, rising ever upward, was a cloud of smoke. The villages were burning.

“I think Libra managed to get everyone here,” Nah said, seeing Gaius’ horrified expression. The prince gave a small nod.

Together they looked out over the horizon. Smoke was rising from the west, but also from the north and the south. The Risen forces were spreading out, encircling all of Ylisstol.

Severa let out a rallying cry. Several guards began frantically turning the large crank that would seal the front gates. More soldiers lined up behind her.

“Good Gods, is that it?” Gaius groaned, looking at the assembled forces. “How many trained soldiers are here in the city right now, a hundred? Maybe two?”

Nah gave a helpless shrug. “Severa said it wouldn’t be enough, but...what choice do we have?”

Gaius appeared to be deep in thought. He craned over the wall, watched as the army approached, thousands strong.

“It’s not enough.” Nah noticed Gaius had taken what appeared to be a small, wrapped hard candy out of his vest, and was making it dance across his knuckle, as some nimble street performers did with coins. He tapped his foot nervously. “There’s no way we can hold out in a battle. We need to look at this situation from another angle…”

“We need to get down there, Gaius! Now!” Nah shouted. She didn’t know what difference it would make, but it felt wrong to be hiding safely out of sight while so many prepared to face the onslaught dead on.

“Right,” Gaius said, appearing to have finally come to a decision. “We need to tell them. We’re not going to fight.”

“What!?” Nah gasped. Such a thought hadn’t even occurred to her.

“Come on, Nah, I understand that we’ve faced crazy odds before, but there’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity.” Gaius began moving again, finding a different set of stairs to rapidly descend. Nah scurried to keep up.

“So we’re just going to give up?”

“Tsk. Didn’t say that. We negotiate with whoever is leading this army and let them think they’ve conquered us. A hostage situation type deal, right? They do a headcount, assume they’ve got everything on lockdown, and settle in as the new rulers. If you want something, which I assume this Plegian guy does, you don’t just murder everybody. You keep the people alive for leverage.”

“How do you know so much about hostage situations?” Nah asked.

“Not taking questions right now,” Gaius quickly responded. “Anyway, they only think they’ve got everyone, right? But there’s me, Lissa, Libra, Cherche, Owain, Brady - a bunch of us old veterans around the city. We stay low, out of sight, sow dissent, and help get others to be a pain in the ass to the occupiers. If we just hold out long enough, then when Chrom and his army get back, we can strike from within while he strikes from without. Retake Ylisse with minimal casualties.”

Nah shook her head. “We don’t know how long until Chrom and the others get back. If they don’t even know anything is wrong here, why would they hurry, or come prepared for an attack?”

“Because--” Gaius began, but was interrupted by a loud bang.

They were almost back at the main square behind the now sealed front gate. The crowd here was packed with curious onlookers, watching the arranged soldiers fumble awkwardly with their weapons and shields. Nah and Gaius squeezed through in an attempt to see what was going on.

Severa and Libra stood at the front of the line of soldiers, looking up at the wooden gate. A large crack ran down the center of it.

A moment later another loud bang rang out. Everyone in the crowd stumbled slightly, knocking into each other. All eyes were trained on the gate.

Another moment passed, filled with a tense silence. Nah braced herself, waiting for the bang, for the gate to come crashing down, for the Risen army to swarm over them, for the carnage to reign just as it did during the festival…

But nothing happened. Slowly a curious muttering began to ripple through the crowd--

And there, in a flash of light, was Mort, new king of Plegia, standing before the gate. He held up his hands as he slowly approached, a wide smile that contained no mirth spread across his face.

“Hello, Ylisse!” he shouted, his voice projecting loudly and confidently across the crowd.

The two soldiers on either side of the gate charged, one with a spear pointed forward, the other with a sword waving through the air.

Mort stepped backward and grabbed the spear as it passed, yanking it sideways and driving it through the ribs of the other guard. He spun, grabbed the sword out of his limp hand as the life left him, brought it around in an arc, and slit the second guard’s throat. In a matter of seconds, both lay dead at his feet.

“Everyone hold!” Severa screamed, as other soldiers appeared ready to charge. The line of Ylissean soldiers maintained position behind her. Severa met the invader with a grim, angry stare. Libra stood beside her, arms folded in front of him, a look of peaceful sadness on his face.

“Thank you,” Mort said, shaking his hands to remove the small amount of blood that had landed on them. “I would prefer my new gate be kept largely intact, if that’s alright with you? You, and you,” he said, pointing to two random guards in the crowd, “open it.”

They looked to Severa, clearly hesitant.

“Do it,” Libra said. Severa followed his lead with a slight nod, and the guards moved forward towards the crank. Slowly, the battered gate was opened.

The first two to come through were Wulf and Joab. Just the sight of Wulf made Nah’s skin crawl. The last she had seen him, he had been striking down Donnel in the woods, while the General had knelt there helplessly, as if accepting his fate.

They flanked Mort. Mort...so he had survived his explosive spell. Nah had briefly wondered if one of the others had been in charge of the attack, but she could see clearly now that everything terrible that had happened, that was happening, was his fault.

“Now,” Mort said. The Risen army stayed at bay, outside the gate, but their presence underlined the threat behind his words. “Who is in charge here?”

Severa shifted slightly, but immediately Libra stepped forward before she could.

“I am,” he said.

Nah felt the pit of her stomach drop.

Mort stepped forward slightly. Libra went forth to meet him.

“You are a brave man, to stand before me like this,” Mort said. “You are so very old. I was hoping for some younger heroes to test my mettle against.”

“I am prepared to negotiate with you,” Libra responded. “The lives of these men and women are worth more to me than any treasure. What is it you want?”

Mort appeared to consider this for a moment. He made a melodramatic display of thinking, tapping his chin, humming nonchalantly. “Well, I would like to rule. I would like to hurt those who wronged me.”

“Ylisse has done all it could to aid Plegia, after the...unfortunate wars between our people,” Libra said. “We would be happy to continue--”

“Plegia?” Mort looked genuinely taken aback by that. “I don’t care about Plegia!”

Nah looked to Gaius, who appeared as confused as she was.

As did Libra. He struggled to recover. “If...you are not speaking of Plegia, then what wrongs is it you speak of, ser? I am afraid that, without understanding your grievances, I cannot help to address them.”

“No...no, I suppose you can’t.” Mort turned around to his two lackeys. Wulf ran a finger lightly along the blade of his axe, while Joab just chuckled at some undoubtedly uncouth joke only he was aware of.

“Bring in the troops,” Mort ordered. “Round everyone up. Everyone out of their homes and into the main square in front of the castle. Keep as many alive as you can.”

“And any we can’t?” Joab asked, clearly giddy at the prospect.

Mort slowly turned back around, as Wulf motioned for the Risen to start entering the city. He took a few steps towards the gathered Ylisseans.

“I am your new ruler!” he called out. “I am called Mort, but you shall call me King. Or...no, Exalted! That’s more fitting, yes?” He pulled out his blade. Nah thought for a moment that she saw it crackle with electricity as he did so. “I have two thousand Risen under my control. At my word, they will butcher each and every last one of you. Your families, your children, your elders, your pets. So let’s make this nice and easy, hm?”

He gave Libra a hard shove. Nah saw Severa clench a fist around the hilt of her sword, and she prayed her friend wouldn’t do something stupid. Thankfully, Severa untensed and went over to help Libra up.

“Come on,” Gaius hissed, pulling at Nah. She followed, hesitantly, through the crowd where chaos was erupting. Some people screamed; she could only assume the Risen were doing their job of cutting down any resistance.

“You need to get out of here,” Gaius hissed as they picked up speed, running through back alleys in the hopes of staying out of sight of the occupying force.

“What!?” Nah hissed. “No! I’m sick of running away! That’s what Donnel wanted me to do, and he...and he…”

“Was right,” Gaius said. “You’re our best hope right now, Nah. You need to get a horse and ride north, around the army. You need to get to Regna Ferox. Chrom and the Khans need to march to war to liberate Ylisse.”

“But Donnel died! I won’t...I can’t…”

Gaius put a finger over her lips. Nah was ashamed to feel herself crying.

“I ain’t the dying type, kid. I’m gonna lay low. Do what I can. But you need to go, now!”

Nah finally realized where he had been leading her: to a stables near the eastern gates, an exit much smaller than the main gates to the west. Gaius quickly and expertly saddled a horse and led it out of the stall, towards Nah.

“Look!” Nah hissed, pointing. A small patrol of Risen were watching the back exit, because of course they were, she cursed.

“I got this,” Gaius said. “Get ready to ride. I hope you’ve got supplies. Or remember how to hunt. Lots of good bear eatin’ in the countryside.”

Nah groaned. She did have some rations in her pack, but she hadn’t eaten a good meal since the night before, and she judged it would be a few hours of hard riding before she’d feel safe enough to stop and hunt. Her pack, which contained her rations, dragonstone, spellbooks, and various other knick knacks, still felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, but she chalked it up to how tired she was. Adrenaline alone was driving her now.

Gaius made his way over to the Risen, arms raised in a sign of surrender. Nah had never fully understood how sentient the Risen were, but these ones seemed to be held back from indulging in random bloodshed due to whatever spell Mort was using to control them.

“Evening, gents,” Gaius said. “Lovely day for an occupation, isn’t it?”

One of the Risen rattled its sword, grumbling something guttural and unintelligible.

“Fair enough, fair enough,” Gaius responded. “Hey, interested in some candy apples? Must be hungry work, ravaging the countryside and burning farmland.”

He reached into his vest. The Risen didn’t like that, and stepped forward threateningly. Gaius pulled something out, but it was no candy apple; when he threw it on the ground, it exploded in a cloud of smoke. Nah heard the clash of swords.

“Now! Go!” Gaius screamed from within the haze. He danced nimbly between the Risen, cutting them all down where they stood, blinded and confused. Nah kicked her horse and rode past him, through the open gate.

“Good luck, kid!” Gaius shouted. “Don’t take too long!”

Nah wanted to yell something back, but couldn’t find her voice. When she dared risk looking over her shoulder, Gaius was gone.

A few more patrols of Risen were on this side of the city; a few had bows, and arrows went whizzing by her, much too close for comfort. She wasn’t the most experienced horse rider, but the horse seemed to have a good enough idea of what it was doing. It picked up speed as it hit the flat grasslands around the city. Nah lowered her head down until her face was nearly in the horse’s mane, and closed her eyes, feeling the wind whipping by her at speeds so fast it nearly stung.

 

She rode for hours, until the sun was nearly down on the horizon. No Risen seemed to be on her trail. She knew the horse wouldn’t be able to keep going at this pace for much longer; she slowed, transitioning into a stop. The area was heavily wooded enough that she felt she could find somewhere to camp for the night in safety. She still wasn’t willing to risk a fire, though; cooked meat would have to wait.

She slid off the horse, every bone in her body aching, and stumbled to a nearby tree which she slumped against. She pulled her bag off and lay it on the ground before her. She was so hungry, even the dry soldiers rations she had on her seemed like a treat waiting to be enjoyed.

She opened her bag, and screamed.

“I’m scared, Nowi,” Lucina said, crawling out. She looked dirty and disheveled, her wide eyes looking around. “What’s happening? Where’s Uncle Gaius?”

“Lucina!?” Nah yelled, her heart leaping up into her throat. “What are---how--”

“You told me,” Lucina said, sniffling, “you told me back at the orphanage. Stay close to you, no matter what. You’d keep me safe. I trust you, Nowi. But what’s happening?”

Nah slid down the tree, into a slumped, defeated position. She had just accidentally kidnapped the princess for a frantic, non-stop mission to another country with a hostile army potentially on her tail.

She looked at the young girl. Despite her obvious nervousness, there was a strength there, a determination. She recognized that look: she wanted to cry, but knew she couldn’t. She was a Big Girl.

“It’s going to be okay, Lucina,” she said softly, pulling the girl close for a hug. “I promise.”

One Lucina had died in front of her. That would never, ever happen again.

“It’s going to be okay.”


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inigo and Morgan find themselves in Plegia behind enemy lines. A plan is devised. Awkward sexual tension is thick. The local Plegians are not helpful.

Chapter 3  
Time - Early evening, 1 day after the Harvest Festival  
Place - Western border pass, Plegia

Inigo woke up.

It was one of many decisions he would later come to regret.

His head was throbbing, both from the drink and from slamming his head against the roof of the cart the night before. He was covered in sweat and tangled with a messy knot of blankets - which, worst of all, somebody appeared to have peed on.

At least it was nice and dark in here, he thought, at which point bright, blinding light flooded in, because he had apparently offended the universe in some way.

He thought, what’s going on? Where are we? How much time has passed?

He thought, I have a lot of vague memories from last night, and none of them good. I remember explosions and people screaming. I remember pain in Gerome’s voice.

He thought, we have to get back there and help everyone. Gerome and Lucina and all the rest...we have to save them.

But what he said was, “hrrghgblurghmuh.”

Soft hands grabbed him and pulled him out from the mess of blankets. He blinked furiously, his eyes watering, until he could see Morgan.

He tried again. “Wha’s where wha’ who?”

“Yeah, hey,” Morgan responded, closing the back of the cart. Inigo felt himself start to wobble, but miraculously caught himself and straightened up before he could tumble.

“Water?” Inigo asked, pleased at himself for finally managing a coherent word. Morgan nodded, and handed him a flask. Inigo took several long, grateful gulps. When he finally handed the nearly empty flask back, he asked, “where are we? What happened?”

Morgan took the flask, shook it, and sighed at how little was left. “We’re in Plegia. I don’t...know what happened, exactly. It was bad, whatever it was. There were Risen, and...I think Lucina…”

Inigo looked at Morgan for a long moment, before moving in to offer her a hug. She pushed away, shaking her head.

“It was that new king of Plegia. Mort. He cast some sort of spell, an explosion. You were in the back of the cart, in no condition to fight, and I saw Risen appearing all around us. Out of nowhere. I don’t know how he did it. But I...I panicked, and drove the cart away as fast as I could. West, into Plegia. It was the only path that wasn’t blocked off by the Risen, ironically.”

“Okay, well, Lucina is fine,” Inigo asserted. “She’s a tough nut to crack, eh? And she’s got Gerome with her. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if the two of them wrapped up the whole thing already. So we should head back and rendezvous with them--”

“We’re not rushing in blind,” Morgan said, with a finality of tone that brooked no argument. “This Mort says he’s my half-brother. Says he was hidden by his father until he was old enough to claim the throne. But...I mean, an army of Risen? I’ve read the stories about Gangrel. He was crazy, but he wasn’t able to do anything like that.”

Inigo looked around, scanning the horizon. Plegia had never exactly been a prime vacation spot, but after decades of war, much of it was scarred wasteland. When the Fel Dragon Grima had been summoned, it was here in Plegia. The population had been quite literally decimated. The environment ranged from miserably hot desert, to miserably dry canyon, to miserably empty steppes.

“So we’re at war with a new king of Plegia,” Inigo said, slowly, “and we’re running into the HEART of Plegia? Just the two of us?”

“We’re not here to fight. We’re here to investigate. Gather information about your foe, always enter battle prepared. Knowledge is power. My father used to say at least two of those three things.”

Inigo cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders.

“Fair enough,” he said, utterly lacking the willpower to argue against Morgan. He knew how determined she could get. “Just the two of us, on an epic quest to save the world. Really brings me back, y’know? To the good old days, when we were almost dying on a daily basis.”

“Uh huh,” Morgan said, rolling her eyes. “But before we start this journey, you should probably take those pants off.”

Inigo looked up at her, his face turning an embarrassing shade of crimson.

“Why, Morgan, I--” he began.

Morgan held up a hand to cut him off. “Just stop right there. I’m saying this because you clearly pissed yourself while you were passed out last night and it’s starting to make me uncomfortable. There should be some spare outfits in the cart.”

Inigo looked down at himself, contemplated for a moment, then back up.

“We can’t prove this pee is mine,” he said.

“Go!” Morgan snapped.

As Inigo made his way back into the cart to search for some new clothing, grumbling to himself under his breath, Morgan made her way to the front of the cart. She had a small, simple map unfolded by the seat she had been sitting in while driving through the night. It wasn’t particularly detailed, though getting this far hadn’t exactly been difficult; she just followed the setting sun then continued in as straight a line as she could manage.

Now the tricky part was figuring out where to go from here. Some parts of Plegia could be brimming with hostile soldiers working for Mort. Many, undoubtedly, would be full of the poor and destitute that were just struggling to pull their lives together after the many wars that they had been dragged into.

She scanned the map, looking for anything that jumped out at her. Her mother had been from Plegia. Technically her father had been as well. Unfortunately, none of this really seemed to matter - amnesia apparently ran in the family. She was unlikely to find a long lost Grandma to run home to.

She spotted a town on the map, just a small ways north of their current location. “Midtown,” she read aloud. “A popular crossroads and trading post. Hmm…”

There was a soft jingling behind her, and she turned to see Inigo walking around the cart. He was wearing a flamboyant blue doublet, slightly opened at the chest, and flared purple leggings. He had even put on pointed shoes with little bells on them.  
He spun around as Morgan gave him a long, blank stare.

“What do you think? How do I look?” He chuckled. “Man, who do you think packed this getup?”

“You look like an idiot,” she responded automatically. But then a proverbial candlestick lit up over her head. “Inigo, you idiot! You brilliant, brilliant idiot!”

“Uh, okay,” he responded, his blush starting to rise up again.

“Are there more weird clothes like that? I should change too!” Morgan said excitedly, rushing around to the back of the cart, half pulling her shirt off before she was even around the corner.

“I am loving your excitement,” Inigo said, rather hesitantly, “but I’m not sure I understand it.”

“Two Ylisseans snooping around for information would be incredibly suspicious, and a good way for us to get caught by some of Mort’s lackeys. But if we’re not Ylisseans...just, say, two travelling merchants from a distant land…” Morgan explained, over the sound of supplies being tossed around.

“Ahh! Yes, I understand. We’ll travel...in character!” Inigo exclaimed. “I can speak with an accent! Dah, my name iz Inigo unt I ahm from exotic lands across dah sea.”

“Mmm, okay, that was around three accents and they were all terrible, so let’s drop that plan,” Morgan responded, coming back out of the cart with puffy, embroidered robes on. “But you’re in the right ballpark.” She made a flourishing motion with her hands. “Morgan and Inigo’s Merchant Caravan is open for business!”

“Yes!” Inigo said, pumping his fist in the air. “Hey, how come your name goes first..?”

 

They worked late into the night. Every item of clothing, every spare weapon, ever knick knack they could scrounge up was dusted off and carefully arranged on display. Morgan tore some blank pages out of one of her notebooks to make price tags. Inigo found some red mud to decorate the outside of the cart.

“Ta-da,” he said, as the fading sunlight glinted off his handiwork: Inigo and Morgan’s Merchant Caravan. Crude drawings of the two of them flanked the logo.

“Not bad,” Morgan said approvingly as she stepped back to take it all in. “We make an alright team, when you can focus on the actual task at hand long enough.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Inigo said dismissively. “So, we set off for Midtown first thing in the morning, yeah? Want me to take first watch?”

Morgan shrugged. “I don’t really think it matters too much - it’s a straight line to the horizon in every direction. We’d see and hear anyone coming long before they reach us.”

She turned and pulled back the curtain to the back of the cart. Her and Inigo looked inside - with all the items laid out everywhere, there was only room for one sleeping bag in the middle.

“We could both--” Morgan said softly.

“Yeah, I’ll take first watch!” Inigo said loudly.

“Hm?”

“What?”

“I said--”

“Oh, I was just--”

“Sorry, you go first.”

“You get some rest,” Inigo said, puffing out his chest in a show of bravado. “I was unconscious for twelve hours anyway. I’m wide awake!”

“Oh. Okay, thanks,” Morgan said meekly. She crawled into the cart and gave Inigo a fleeting look. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight!” Inigo said, far louder than he had intended. Morgan drew the curtain shut.

He turned away, feeling incredibly hot beneath the collar for some reason. He made sure he was about fifty paces away from the cart before he said, “gods damn it.”

 

“Wakey wakey!”

Inigo jolted upright. His neck was killing him - apparently using a jagged rock as a pillow hadn’t been the best plan, but his outdoorsman skills were sorely lacking.

He was hot, sweaty, and covered in a fine layer of dust, but a refreshing shadow had moved to cover him - Inigo and Morgan’s Merchant Caravan. Morgan sat up front, horses already fed and prepped to go, reigns in her hands. Inigo scrambled upright and hopped into the seat next to her.

“Somebody had a productive morning,” he said, brushing his clothes in an attempt to get at least some of the grime off.

“I had a bit of trouble sleeping,” she responded with a light shrug. “Had a lot on my mind.”

Inigo gave her a nervous look. “Er, like what?”

Morgan stared back. “Like...what to say to a murderous half-brother if and when I finally come face to face with him?”

“Oh, right, that.” He stretched out, trying to get as comfortable as he could on the bumpy ride across a countryside where ‘roads’ were a bourgeois luxury. “You’re a good person, Morgan. I think whatever you do, it will be the best possible choice. If anyone could change someone...it would be you.”

Morgan frowned. “That’s nice of you to say, Inigo, but I’m not quite as confident about that as you are. My mother was a...strange character. I don’t have many memories of her, personally, but I know she fought against Ylisse for many years. She worked with Gangrel and Validar. Hell, even my father had the blood of the Fell Dragon in him. If anyone has the potential for evil in their veins, it’s me…”

Inigo watched her, her normally bright and shiny face overcast by her mood and the incessant storm of dust.

They had never told her. About how, when they had found her shortly before the ritual to come back in time, she had been ranting and raving about being in service to Grima. How she had attacked Brady, forcing him to bash her over the head to knock her out. How that was likely why she had lost much of her memory from before that time.

Inigo knew Morgan; she had long been one of his closest friends. So close that he could hardly bring himself to invite her out for tea. Whatever was between them was more serious than that, or so he hoped. And he knew she was a good person. She would never have voluntarily turned against them. Grima, or an agent of his, had cast some sort of spell on her. He had always believed that to be true, and he wasn’t about to stop now.

“Shut up,” he said, playfully. “You are the last one to ever do that. Let's be honest, if any of us have supervillainy in our future, it’s Gerome. He’s already got the wardrobe.”

Morgan chuckled at that. “You really think he’s okay?”

“Trust me on this. We’re going to make it back to Ylisse, and Gerome is going to roll his eyes at me and say something like, ‘took you long enough. Were you busy getting rejected by every woman on the continent?’”

Morgan laughed even harder at this. Inigo felt his heart soar, knowing he had helped take her mind off of darker things. They rode in silence for some time.

“I think I see something on the horizon,” Morgan finally pointed out. “See, there?”

“Aye,” Inigo agreed. “Looks like man-made structures. Probably that town we’re heading for. So, just to be clear, we’re NOT doing accents?”

As they drew closer, it became apparent that Midtown was less like a town and more like an outpost. A small smattering of crude, unadorned buildings extended outwards from an empty, dusty circle that could possibly have been a bustling trading post in a time when this countryside wasn’t so hellish.

At the moment there didn’t seem to be any signs of life...no, that wasn’t right. A lone merchant had a stall set up along the outer rim of the trading grounds. It looked to be hastily constructed with uneven hunks of wood, with a shakily written sign up top - ‘Apples 5c’. Small baskets filled with brownish circles sat atop it, just daring the world to try one.

Lacking any other options, Morgan pulled their cart over to the apple stall. She and Inigo dismounted to make their way over to the lone merchant, Morgan stopping to hitch the horses.

Inigo reached the stall first, and looked suspiciously from the little old lady minding the stall, to the ‘apples’ she was selling.

“So...apples, eh?” he said, rather hesitantly.

“Oh, yes. Fresh from the orchard,” the old lady responded.

Inigo looked over the merchandise. “Are they...Macintosh?” he asked.

“Sure,” the old lady replied.

Inigo picked one up and inspected it. He brought it down onto the wooden counter. It went ‘clonk.’

Morgan came up behind him, not-so-subtly shoving him aside so she could speak to the old lady herself.

“Greetings, madame!” she said, all sunshine and flowers. “We’re travelling merchants looking to do a bit of business in yonder town.”

“Yonder?” Inigo whispered.

“However,” Morgan continued, ignoring him, “I can’t help but notice this town is a bit devoid of potential customers.”

“Mmhmm,” the old lady replied.

“Being from...not around here,” Morgan went on, “we’re not quite up to date on the, ah, situation in Plegia. Heard there’s a new king around.”

“Mmhmm,” the old lady replied.

“What’s he like, eh? Any connection between him and the...apparently dwindling population here?” Morgan asked, trying to sound casual.

“Mmm,” the old lady replied.

Morgan sighed. “Is there, by any chance, a tavern, or somewhere I can go to talk to someone?”

“Sorry,” the old lady replied. She tapped the ‘apples 5c’ sign. “I prefer to save my chitchat for paying customers.”

Morgan and Inigo exchanged a sidelong glance. Morgan motioned towards the old lady. Inigo frowned. Morgan waved her hand a bit more aggressively. Inigo rolled his eyes and reached for his coin purse.

“I’d like to buy an apple, please!” he said, with a sarcastic amount of excitement. He slapped five copper pieces onto the wooden countertop, and took the apple he had banged against it earlier. He began tossing it back and forth between his hands. He certainly wasn’t about to bite into it, unless he suddenly decided he had too many teeth.

“Pleasure doin’ business with ya,” the old lady said, grinning. “So, what was the question?”

“Where is everybody?” Morgan asked. “This place seems deserted. Does it have anything to do with, uh...that new king?”

The old lady gave a shrug. “Ain’t been many folks out this way the past few years. Lotta folks joined the Grimleal, went and got themselves eaten. Didn’t much see the appeal in that, m’self. There’s mostly just the local militia, by which I mean the sheriff and his boys. But they ain’t had much work to do lately, since them city folk came to lend a hand.”

“City folk?” Morgan pried, feeling like they were starting to get somewhere.

“Ayup,” the old lady went on. “Platoon of guards said they were sent by that new king ya mentioned. Dunno why they bothered. Ain’t nothin’ out here worth a king’s attention.”

Morgan and Inigo exchanged looks once more. “Thank you, very much. Where could we find these city folk?”

Inigo fumbled the apple, but caught it before it hit the ground. “Huh? Why would we want to do that?”

The old lady pointed east, at one of the wider buildings. “Took up residence in the Sheriff’s place. Good guy, our Sheriff. Bit of a dolt, but ‘s alright.”

“Thanks! Come on, Inigo.”

Morgan took off towards the indicated building. Inigo watched her for a moment before rushing after her, apple in hand.

“Wait! What’s the plan here?” he hissed. “Isn’t going right up to a group of guards sent by Mort kind of the opposite of remaining low-key?”

“We’re not going to learn anything from that crazy old lady,” Morgan answered. “Don’t worry, just stay in character and we’ll be fine. Let me do the talking if it makes you feel better.”

“It doesn’t,” Inigo said with a sigh.

Another dust storm was starting to pick up. Inigo and Morgan both brought up their arms to cover their faces as they approached the building. They pushed the door open and stumbled in just in time, before the whipping winds became truly painful.

“What a miserable place,” Inigo mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

“Hello there!” Morgan announced.

A half dozen set of eyes looked up at them. They were not welcoming looks.

Five of them were scattered about the room, sharpening blades, cleaning armour. Two were in a fierce arm wrestling match. One was picking his teeth with a dagger.

The sixth had the markings of an officer on his uniform. He sat behind a large desk. Oddly, there was nothing on the desk - no paperwork, no office supplies, nothing.

The officer lifted his head ever so slightly. “What?” he said. It didn’t seem to be a question so much as an indication of his astonishment that anyone would be so stupid as to come in here.

“We’re travelling merchants on our way through Plegia,” Morgan continued, after pausing for only a moment to regain her composure. “We haven’t been this way in a few years, though. We heard there’s a new king and wanted to learn a bit more about the situation here. So that we can better understand the culture, and all that.”

The officer continued to stare daggers at her. Inigo, feeling deeply uncomfortable, began to nervously fiddle with the apple in his hands.

“The culture,” he repeated.

“That’s right. It’s always good for merchants to...know the lay of the land, and all that.” I think, she added to herself.

Inigo looked around the room. The other five hadn’t made a peep. They had all stopped what they were doing to stare intently at the newcomers.

“King Mort is a good man,” the officer said slowly. “He brought us with him.”

“From the capitol, you mean?” Morgan prodded.

The officer paused for a moment, before responding, “yes.”

“Odd, though, that no one knew about him until recently, isn’t it? How did Gangrel manage to hide the fact that he had a son? And why?”

The officer looked deeply annoyed. “I do not know why kings do what they do. I follow orders.”

“And your orders were to come out here, to Midtown? Seems a bit odd for one so...well decorated as yourself.” She gave her best attempt at a flattering smile. It didn’t work.

The officer leaned back and stretched. He was a much taller man than he had originally looked, hunched over his desk.

“I don’t ask questions. I follow orders.”

There was a thud, as the guard that had been using a dagger to pick his teeth drove the blade into the table in front of him for no apparent reason.

“Look, I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot,” Morgan said hurriedly. “We don’t mean to cause any offense.”

Inigo gulped nervously. He went to toss his apple from right hand to left, but missed - it hit the ground with another ‘clonk’ that cut through the tense air like a knife. Upon hitting the uneven wooden flooring, it began to roll, until it banged into the edge of what appeared to be a makeshift bar built into the left side of the room.

“Sorry, sorry,” Inigo mumbled, “I’ll just...get that…”

“Don’t get many travelers this way,” the officer said, idly. “Where did you say you were from again?”

“Well, we didn’t say,” Morgan answered with an awkward chuckle. “We’re from, ah...the Farfort. Small town, I’m sure you’ve never heard of it.”

“No,” the officer responded, venom in his tone. “That in Ylisse?”

Inigo hunched over and hustled after the apple. He bent down to grab it, and something caught his eye. Very slowly and cautiously, he looked around the bar.

A pudgy man was staring at him. His eyes were wide with terror. He didn’t say anything, presumably because of the gag over his mouth. Rope was binding his legs and arms together.

“Meep,” Inigo said, straightening up and spinning around.

“It’s near Ylisse,” Morgan said. “But I’d remind you that Ylisse and Plegia have been at peace for years now.”

The officer looked between Morgan and an increasingly sweaty Inigo. He stood up.

“I think we should go,” Inigo hissed.

“There’s no reason for this hostility,” Morgan said, her voice growing stern as she clearly began to lose her patience. “What does this king Mort have against Ylisse, exactly? Why would he possibly want to start another war?”

The other five soldiers were standing, starting to fan out in a circle around them. Inigo watched as they seemed to morph before his eyes, their skin fading, their faces shifting…

“Risen!” he shouted.

The officer let out a shriek as the illusion slipped away. He reached under the desk and pulled out a spear, then launched himself over the desk to charge at Morgan.

“Get down!” Inigo screamed. He shoved her to the ground, and together they tumbled across the floor as the officer went flying over them.

“We need weapons!” Morgan yelled. Thankfully, this was a barracks, even if it was a relatively bland one. A few weapons racks leaned against the wall to their right, boasting a variety of poor quality swords.

Inigo and Morgan scrambled to their feet. Unfortunately, the Risen were already armed. Two came charging at them, one from each side. They spun apart, each letting the thrill of battle take control of their reflexes.

They had been killing Risen for a long, long time. They were good at it.

Inigo grabbed a wooden chair as he spun away, and brought it around in an arc, smashing it across the torso of the Risen closest to him. The Risen collapsed to the ground, its weapon skittering across the floor. Inigo leapt backwards towards the officer’s desk and kicked it over, making a barricade of sorts.

He ducked behind it, just as a Javelin came hurling across the room. It jutted into the thick wooden desk, shuddering to a halt.

Keeping himself close to the ground, he peeked around the desk to see if Morgan was okay. A Risen was slashing madly at her, and while she managed to nimbly dodge back and forth, a few times the Risen was missing by mere inches. It was too close for comfort.

Inigo rushed forward and threw himself at the Risen, knocking it backwards. Together they crashed straight through a wooden barrel. Thankfully the Risen absorbed most of the blow. Inigo quickly stood up and brushed the stray splinters off of himself.

“Catch!”

Morgan had reached one of the weapons racks. She knew his preferred fighting style; a long, thin rapier was thrown his way. He caught the hilt and spun around, feeling whole once again, even if this was clearly a piece of garbage compared to some of the weapons he’d grown to rely on in wars past.

Morgan was, despite appearances, a good deal stronger than Inigo; while he preferred to dance around his opponents, slashing at weak points as they became exposed, she preferred to use a broadsword and bash her way through their defenses. Inigo knew from years of training alongside her just how relentless she could be.

The Risen next to him was starting to pick itself up. Before it had a chance to recover, Inigo spun and drove his sword through the back of its skull, putting it down for good.

Morgan let out a guttural scream and charged forward. Two Risen stepped in front of the officer as if to protect him; odd behaviour for Risen, Inigo couldn’t help but notice. The ones they had fought previously were all but mindless beasts. Not only had one been communicating with them in nearly complete sentences, but they were organizing like an actual platoon.

Morgan’s blade came crashing down on one of the Risen, knocking its dagger aside and sending it hurtling across the room. She quickly ducked down as the second one’s blade swept past where her neck had been a moment before. She grabbed a leg from the chair Inigo had shattered earlier, and parried a second blow with it. The Risen’s weapon jammed in the wood, and Morgan yanked backwards, pulling the Risen off his feet.

Inigo charged in towards the officer. That one still had a spear, allowing him much greater range than Inigo had; hopefully it would prove cumbersome in close quarters combat. He brought his sword down in an arc to knock the spear away as it was thrust forward; the blow sent waves of pain up his arm, but it was better than a spear in the gut.

The officer stepped away from him, and the vaguest of survival instincts told Inigo to turn around; another Risen was almost on him, dagger raised and ready to cut him down where he stood.

In a panic, he brought his sword up, while stumbling backwards. He didn’t feel his sword connect with anything. Well, that was it; he had missed, and now he was going to die.

After a moment of continued not dying, he looked down and saw the Risen on the ground, cut perfectly in half. Inigo looked sidelong to see Morgan still busy holding off two Risen on her own.

“Damn, I’m good,” Inigo admitted with a shrug.

Morgan thrust her blade through the ribs of one of the Risen. She brought up a foot to kick the corpse backwards while pulling her weapon free. As she turned her attention on the final guard, the officer charged forward, spear ready to drive straight through her.

Not sure of what else to do, Inigo threw the apple. It clunked against the officer’s head, throwing off his aim. Morgan had just finished dispatching the second Risen when the officer reached her; instead of impaling her through the back, the spear slid across her shoulders, cutting her a nasty but non-lethal flesh wound.

Morgan screamed and collapsed. The officer turned towards Inigo, eyes glowing with hatred.

“Come and get me, ugly!” Inigo taunted. He prayed the monster would charge for him first, rather than try to finish off Morgan while she was prone.

Thankfully, the officer proved susceptible to schoolyard taunts. It charged forward. Inigo raised his blade and stepped aside, but his opponent anticipated this; the officer pivoted, and drove the butt of the spear hard into Inigo’s ribs. He felt a painful crack as the wind was knocked out of him.

“Pathetic,” the officer said with a smug grin. He picked up Inigo with one hand and threw him across the room, where he landed next to Morgan. Morgan was struggling to sit upright again; Inigo helped her, and together they sat in each other’s arms, bleeding and broken.

“Mort will be most pleased. Two less Ylissean scum. I will bring your scalps to him at his new home in Ylisstol.”

Inigo held Morgan as tightly as he could. He had so much he wanted to tell her. So much he wanted to apologize for.

And then a spear tip exploded through the Risen officer’s chest.

“Aaaahhhh!” Inigo screamed. “A haunted spear!”

Morgan shook him. “Inigo, look! Something is holding the spear!”

As the spear was pulled out of the Risen, the corpse slumped to the ground at their feet. A large, shining suit of golden armour stood behind it.

“Aaaahhhh!” Inigo screamed again. “A haunted suit of armour!”

Morgan slapped him. “Inigo, look! Someone is in the armour!”

Together they looked up at the concerned, gentle face looking down at them.

“...Dad!?” Inigo gasped. He then clutched his ribs in pain. “Ow…”

“It’s okay! That’s the last of them,” Kellam said, bending down to offer his son a hand. “Come on, there was a healing staff in the cart. You and Morgan both need to be patched up.”

“Dad!?” Inigo repeated. “What the...how did you get here? How did you know where to find us?”

Kellam looked between Inigo and Morgan, both of whom were staring at him with shock and awe clear on their faces.

“Er,” Kellam answered. “I’ve been with you guys the entire time.”

“You...huh?”

“I was at the festival with you,” Kellam explained. “I was the one who kept offering to refill your drinks for you? I wanted you to be able to relax and have fun, since I know how rare that is...but then I helped Morgan carry you to the cart since she was struggling to do it herself…”

“Huh,” Morgan said. “You know, I thought it was suspiciously easy.”

“I’ve been helping steady you whenever you were about to fall,” Kellam continued.

“I thought I had really great balance!” Inigo yelled.

“And I helped cut down that Risen that almost got you,” he said, pointing to the Risen that had been cut in half.

“So, wait, wait, wait,” Inigo said, rubbing his temples. “You were the one who peed on my blankets!?”

“Er...no. That was definitely you.”

“Oh.”

Morgan winced and grabbed at her bleeding shoulder. “Well, thanks, Kellam. We’d be goners if you hadn’t arri-- er… been here. What was that about a healing staff..?”

“Wait, hold on,” Inigo said. He gritted his teeth through the pain and walked briskly across the room back to the bar. He reached down and dragged forward the man who was bound and gagged, quickly using his sword to free him.

“Thank the gods,” the man gasped, slowly standing up. He quickly stumbled back to the ground, his legs too weak to support him. “I can’t believe the two of you took on all those monsters!”

“Three,” Kellam corrected nonchalantly.

“It was nothing,” Inigo said. “I realize our cunning ruse was very convincing, but we’re not actually travelling merchants. We’re Ylissean soldiers.”

“Right, yeah, I got that,” the man said, rubbing his legs in an attempt to get some blood flowing. “I’m the sheriff, by the way. Or, I mean, I was, before those guys showed up. They conscripted anyone who could hold a weapon and sent them off to ‘serve the king.’ I think they only kept me around to parade out if anyone left started asking questions…”

“What do you know about this new king?” Morgan asked, shuffling her way over to them, blood dripping through her fingers as she clutched at her wound. “Why does he need so many conscripts?”

“That’s way above my pay grade,” the sheriff replied, “but I heard those beasts talk about an invasion of Ylisse a few times. They made it sound like they had already started…”

Morgan and Inigo exchanged a worried glance.

“That Risen said he’d bring our scalps to Ylisstol,” Inigo said.

“So that’s where he was heading after the festival,” Morgan added. “If he managed to kill everyone there and march through the night…”

“There’s no way he killed everyone there,” Inigo asserted. “Gerome? Nah? Donnel? These guys helped take down Grima! You mean to tell me some punk kid would do what Grima couldn’t?”

“Well, a bunch of punk kids helped take down Grima,” Morgan pointed out.

“Not the point!” Inigo sighed. “Gerome and the rest are fine, okay? They made it to Ylisstol. They’ll warn Severa and Gaius and everyone, and hold out until help arrives. They’re a tough bunch.”

Morgan crossed her arms across her chest, deep in contemplation. “But where does that leave us…? What should we do?”

“We should probably try and get back to Ylisstol as soon as possible,” Kellam suggested.

“I say we head back to Ylisstol as soon as possible,” Inigo asserted.

“But it may be dangerous if more of Mort’s Risen are patrolling the area,” Kellam continued.

“I agree, but it’ll likely be dangerous with Mort’s Risen patrolling the area,” Morgan responded.

“Then we continue as the caravan!” Inigo announced. “We’ll ride north, straight through the heart of Plegia, then head east across the border when we’ve bypassed any holdouts of Mort’s army. I know it didn’t work out so great when we were prying for answers, but if we just keep our heads down and keep moving we should be alright. I mean, with my charm…”

“And my cunning…” Morgan added, nodding.

“And I’m also here,” Kellam said.

“If I can but in here?” the sheriff said, awkwardly raising a hand. “I may actually be able to help. There’s an annual meetup of, uh, I guess you could say merchants. It’s a few days ride north of here, but it sounds like you’re headed that way anyway. Might be able to join up with a caravan heading to Ylisstol, help hide yourselves a bit better. Maybe buy some mercenaries to join your cause, I dunno.”

“Hey, that’s a good idea,” Inigo said, nodding. “Can you show us how to get there?”

The sheriff nodded, and made his way over to the desk, which was now laying on its side and impaled by a javelin. He sighed. “I liked that desk…”

He opened one of the drawers and pulled out a scroll. Upon unrolling it, it was a clear map of Plegia, much more detailed than the basic one Morgan had been using.

“Here,” he said, pointing to a spot that was otherwise in the middle of nowhere.

Inigo, Morgan, and Kellam all craned in for a better look.

The spot was labeled, “Annapolis.”

Kellam chuckled.

Inigo sighed. “Really should have seen that coming.”

Morgan grunted. “Okay, great. So...about that healing staff…”


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerome wakes up and discovers that he is not dead. A funeral cut short. Old friends reunited. The occupation of Ylisstol has begun.

Chapter 4  
Time - Early morning, 2 days after the Harvest Festival  
Place - Ylisstol Forest

The city is burning and my friends are dead…

Gerome was moving. He couldn’t quite figure out how, given that he couldn’t feel most of his body.

He felt hazy, like he was deep underwater. Perhaps I should just go back to sleep…

No! He steeled himself and made a desperate grasp for consciousness. Wake up, his brain told his body, seething with rage. Wake up!

His legs were up in the air. From the waist up he was touching the ground, dragging along, slowly but inexorably. He was admittedly a bit dazed, but this didn’t seem like how walking was supposed to work.

His hair was caked with mud, tangled in a horrible mess behind him. His mask was long gone. Thankfully his axe was still strapped to his side, and even more thankfully it had not sliced into him.

Okay. Mask gone, but head working. Weapon available. He wiggled his arms. No breaks there…

He tried to wiggle his legs. Pain shot up through his body.

That’s not good.

He tensed his upper body, digging his fingers into the mud that he was being dragged through, and forced himself upwards to see what was happening.

“Michalis!” he gasped. “Stop--”

But his griffon, who appeared to be badly wounded and in a daze, paid him no heed. Gerome fell backwards again, splashing into the muck. It washed over his face and for a panicked moment he thought he might drown. The thought of such a pathetic death just made him even angrier.

He managed to wipe enough mud off his face to get another good luck at what was happening. His legs were tangled in the saddle he had rode in, which was mostly broken but still stuck to Michalis’ bloody feathers.

One of his legs was simply numb from having blood flow away from it for who knows how long. The other had a clear break in it.

Gerome gritted his teeth. Broken leg or no, he’d be damned if he was dragged on his ass halfway across the continent. He spotted a large tree root and reached out for it, gripping it with both arms as hard as he could. Michalis continued to walk away from it, but Gerome kept hold until his legs slid out from the tangled harness. He collapsed onto the ground and let out several deep breaths. He was still in agony, but it was relieving to be in control of himself again.

After a few moments to collect himself, he slowly pushed himself upright to lean against the tree trunk. He looked up at the branches; many of them looked to be long and sturdy enough to support someone about his height and build. Getting one down, of course, was going to suck…

He pushed himself up onto his feet, keeping as much weight as possible on his non-broken leg, but pain still shot through him. He took out his axe, reached up, and grabbed the base of a nearby branch with his left hand. He tensed his body, and with his right arm, began hacking away at the branch. Under normal circumstances this would have been a trivial task for him, but as it was, every blow sent pain ringing across his body. When he finally cut through enough of the branch, it broke beneath his weight, sending him crashing back to the ground.

Still, at least he had something to lean on now. It would make getting around marginally quicker and less painful.

Carefully leaning on the makeshift walking stick, he began to follow the path through the muddy forest that his griffon had left. He didn’t have to travel far to catch up; Michalis had made his way to a small lake, and was wading in to drink and clean himself.  
Gerome followed, realizing how thirsty he was, too. He gently lowered himself to the bank and scooped a handful of dirty water to bring up to his lips.

Before he could take his first sip, however, something caught his eye.

He looked up, scanning the horizon, hand reflexively reaching for his axe. There it was - on the far side of the lake, bobbing against the shore.

A body.  
Gerome pushed himself back to his feet, and awkwardly limped his way around until he could get a better look at the body. As he suspected, it was an Ylissean soldier, brutally cut down, his corpse left to rot.

He turned around. A trail of bodies, mostly Ylissean but with a few Risen scattered throughout, cut through the forest.

“Damnit,” he muttered. Hopefully some had survived to make it to Ylisstol, but it looked like everyone had fought like hell through the night. If he hadn’t been so brash, so careless, maybe he could have…

There was no time for that. He had to get to Ylisstol, see what was happening. If he could rendezvous with his friends, he could do much more than if he just moped around a forest.

“Michalis!” he called, but his griffon continued to ignore him, choosing instead to recuperate by the water, nursing it’s injured wing. It was just as well; Gerome was in no condition to ride him, and trying to cart around an injured beast would likely just make his journey more difficult. Michalis was well trained and knew the area around Ylisstol; he would be fine on his own.

Unless a group of Risen ambushed him, of course, Gerome mused as he continued walking slowly through the forest. But given such a possibility was just as real for Gerome himself, he couldn’t afford to split his attention.

Speaking of…

It seemed the Ylissean forces had put up a good fight around here; there were few human corpses, and far more Risen. Much of the foliage had been burned away, likely an attempt by the Risen to flush out any survivors. Gerome counted himself lucky that Michalis was able to avoid the blaze before it burnt itself out.

He followed the trail of Risen corpses as it grew thicker and thicker, culminating in a pile of them laying before--

His father.

Gerome looked down at the corpse of General Donnel, a large wound cleaving across his chest. Yet despite the fact he had clearly died painfully, fighting off an insurmountable horde of foes, his face had a look of peace on it.

Gerome knelt down. Right now, there were no emotions. Perhaps he’d feel them later. But he was used to this; he had already spent most of his adult life an orphan. Most of his friends had. The fact that he had gotten to spend any time at all with his father was...not something he had ever expected.

He still needed to get to Ylisstol. That would be the pragmatic thing. But he couldn’t leave his father here, alone, to rot in a field surrounded by monsters. He knelt, and began hacking at the ground with his axe, softening the earth, bringing up clumps of dirt, until he could reach in with his bare hands and start digging. He dug, and dug, and dug, until his muscles burned and his breath came in ragged gasps.

He gently dragged his father over to the makeshift grave, and began to bury him.

When the job was done, he stood over the mound of earth in silence. He had nothing he could think to say; and no one there to hear it besides.

So history was repeating itself. He had come back in time to save his father from death at the hands of the Risen, but had merely delayed such a result. His mother in Ylisstol...had the horde marched through the capital? Was he an orphan once more?

Was everything they had worked so hard to fix destined to come undone once again?

Mort...he was behind this, somehow. He had killed Lucina, and now his father. Perhaps he did have something to say, after all.

“I vow, on the grave of my father, that I will kill Mort and avenge all those lives he has taken.”

That felt right.

He turned to walk away from the grave, but a rustling sound nearby caught his attention. He reached for his axe, which was covered in dirt clumps, but still deadly in his hands.

Two Risen revealed themselves, walking out from the dense, charred forest and into the clearing. They had spears drawn, and approached him slowly, like hunters moving in to finish off a deer that had already been hit by an arrow.

Gerome was weary and injured. His leg was still bent at an odd angle. He couldn’t even stand without his flimsy crutch.

But he was angry.

“Alright,” he called out to them. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

He waited calmly as the two Risen approached, slowly, until they were only a few feet away...then one of them charged, rushing headfirst--

Gerome put all his weight on his good leg and swung the tree branch up, knocking the spear to the side. With a roar, he brought his axe around with his other hand and planted it firmly into the back of the Risen’s skull.

The other Risen was now charging towards him as well. He let go of both the axe and the branch and lunged forward, grabbing the spear along the hilt and and twisting it sideways before the pointed tip could reach him. He thrust the weapon upwards, smashing it into the Risen’s face, and the two tumbled to the ground.

The Risen crawled out from under Gerome and began to reach for the axe where it had landed, next to the corpse of it’s comrade.

Gerome clawed his way across the dirt, hot in pursuit. He stretched out and grabbed the Risen’s legs, and began to pull himself forward while dragging his opponent back. The Risen desperately flailed at him, and managed to get in a lucky kick on Gerome’s broken leg. He screamed in pain, falling back.

The Risen resumed its frenzied crawl towards the axe. Arm outstretched, it managed to get a grip around the handle…

Gerome screamed in pain as he used all the energy in his good leg to throw himself forward. He had grabbed a rock, and brought it down hard on the Risen’s hand, bashing the boney fingers so that they would release his axe. When the Risen withdrew its hand, Gerome grabbed the axe and brought it up in an arc, then down again. He was straddling the Risen now, trapping it with his knees, as he brought the axe down onto it’s head, again, and again, and again, and again, and again.

He was screaming, pain and adrenaline propelling him to madness. He kept hacking away long after the Risen was dead.

There was another rustling sound behind him. His screaming had likely brought more Risen to the clearing. But it was fine - he felt like he could murder an entire army. He let out a battle cry and spun around, axe cutting through the air.

Something hit him hard on the back of the head.

 

He opened his eyes. Everything was blurry.

One of these days, he thought to himself, I’ll wake up from a nice nap rather than a head injury…

His head was incredibly sore, but through the fogginess came a slow realization: the rest of his body felt much better. He mustered the strength to kick his legs, and was able to without any sharp jolts of pain. He was sore all over, yes, but his more grievous wounds appeared to have been dealt with.

“Where…” he mumbled, and coughed. Gods, he was thirsty.

“Pal! Oi, you’re awake!”

Gerome instantly felt relieved. He was fairly confident he could travel across a thousand lands without running into anyone else who spoke like that.

“Brady?”

Prince Brady of Ylisse was hunched over him, staff in hand. He appeared to have been diligently tending to Gerome while he was unconscious. Gerome realized his shirt had been removed, and many of his cuts and bruises were clearing up.

“Yeah, pal, it’s me. Gosh, they really did a number on ya, huh? I’ve seen blokes kick the bucket from less, but I always knew ol’ Gerome wouldn’t be quick to buy the farm!”

Gerome put a hand up to his aching head. “Just...stick to one euphemism for death at a time, okay?”

“Sorry, pal.”

Brady helped him slowly sit up. He looked around; this appeared to be an infirmary of some sort, but there was no natural light, just a few dim candles. If he’d ever been here before, he couldn’t place it.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Underneath Ylisstol,” Brady explained. “Gaius did a bit of a number on yer noggin’ there...oh! He told me to get him when you woke up, hold on!”

Brady let go of Gerome and ran out of the room. Gerome knew he would be chastised for not resting longer, but he swung his legs over the side of his cot and gently stood up.

It hurt to put pressure on his previously broken leg, but it was manageable. Brady was a skilled healer and had done what he could with his magic. The rest of the soreness would subside with time.

Time that he didn’t have. Why were they UNDER Ylisstol? He knew for a fact there were many good infirmaries above ground. The fact that Brady himself was healing him was also odd. Why wasn’t anyone else here?

Brady came back, chatting excitedly with Gaius. Gerome looked up at the two princes as they entered; both utterly failed to meet the fairy tale depiction of a prince, for entirely different reasons.

Brady was a tall, broad young man who could undoubtedly strike an imposing and stark figure if he chose to, but the way he hunched his shoulders and spiked his hair made him look more like a two-bit thug than anything else. There was also his strange vocabulary that absolutely nobody knew where he had picked up.

Gaius was handsome, but in a rugged sort of way. He always dressed in simple leathers when he could get away with it, eschewing the cloth and finery that was expected of his position. He had an essentially uncountable number of bags, sacks, and purses stashed around his body, some filled with coin, but most filled with candy. He also tended to be armed to the teeth with hidden blades, and wasn’t afraid to use them.

In short, the two men seemed better suited to robbing a bank than running a kingdom.

“Glad you’re up and about,” Gaius said, while Brady rushed over and tried to gently push Gerome back down onto his cot.

“Careful, pal, don’t wanna go re-breakin’ yer tibia or femur or whatever bone it was. It’ll be tender for a while no matter how much healin’ magic I whack ya with.”

“So...you’re the one that hit me?” Gerome asked, eyeing up Gaius as he rubbed the back of his head.

Gaius held up his hands, a guilty smirk on his face. “Sorry. You were screaming and swinging your axe like a madman, and I couldn’t have you cutting one of my beautiful limbs off. Figured it’d be better to let you, uh, sleep it off.”

“And now I’m...UNDER Ylisstol? What happened? Is...is the surface okay..?”

Gaius frowned, and sat down on the edge of the cot. “How much do you know?”

Gerome gritted his teeth. “Mort, the new Plegian king, attacked the harvest festival. He killed Lucina. And…”

“Your father,” Gaius finished. “I saw the grave you dug for him. I left a marker, so when all this is over we can go back and...do it right.”

Gerome looked up at Brady, who had fallen silent. The priest was sullenly twiddling his thumbs.

“I’m sorry about Lucina,” he said, softly.

“Aw, shucks, Gerome, it’s...I ain’t ready to accept it, ya know? We been through so much together, and the idea that she’d just...she’d just leave me now…” He stopped speaking, his eyes welling up with tears.

“I know.” Gerome reached out and gave Brady a comforting pat on the shoulder, which was an incredibly intimate gesture coming from him.

“Thankfully, casualties have been at a minimum since then,” Gaius said, plowing straight through this tender moment. “A few rabble rousers were killed as examples when the Risen took the city, but mostly…”

Gerome looked up at that. “The Risen took the city? As in...they didn’t destroy it?”

“Right,” Gaius said with a sigh. “That Plegian king, Mort? He’s in the castle right now. No doubt sitting on Chrom’s throne with his leg over one side, like a total douche. You know, in all the years I’ve known him, Chrom has never once sat in that throne with anything less than perfect posture? Like he’s afraid it’ll zap him if he slouches? The thought of some punk kid sauntering in there and claiming it as his own…”

“I’m going to kill him,” Gerome said. It wasn’t said in anger, or as a belligerent threat. It was stated as a simple fact.

“Yeah, sounds great,” Gaius said. “Only remember when I said the Risen took the city? They’re all over the place. You’ll never get close to him. There’s barely a handful of us who managed to make it down here, so Mort doesn’t know about us. Everyone else was tallied up, and there are daily roll calls in the square to make sure everyone is accounted for.”

“My mother?” Gerome asked.

“Cherche is fine. So is, uh, little you. Libra is up there, too, and Severa.”

Gerome let out a sigh of relief. His mother was still alive.

“What about the others who were with me at the festival? Inigo, and Morgan…”

“Nah came through two days ago, right ahead of the army. Managed to get the word out just in time for some of us to get down here. I put her on a horse and sent her north to alert Chrom and the Feroxi army. With any luck they’ll be here soon, ready to liberate the city and pry Mort’s cold, dead body from the throne.”

“I’m glad to hear Nah is safe, but you haven’t seen the others?”

Gaius shook his head. “If they were smart, they went in a different direction. So many of Mort’s forces are here in Ylisstol that they must be spread thin everywhere else. I dunno where he got these Risen, but I know for a fact Plegia’s army is still in tatters after the war with Grima. So if they’re out there, they’ll be okay. Right now I’m more worried about us.”

Gerome cracked his knuckles. “Right. What’s the plan?”

Gaius let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “I just told you. Nah’s getting Chrom and the Feroxi army. The plan for us is to sit down here, play cards to stave off the cabin fever, and wait.”

Gerome shook his head. “I’m supposed to just sit down here and twiddle my thumbs while the man who killed my father and the lo...and Lucina, is right above me, unrepentant? That’s pathetic!”

Brady, who had been twiddling his thumbs, quickly stopped and thrust his hands into his sleeves, looking self-conscious.

“Look, I understand,” Gaius said. “Really. I didn’t know my dad, but if I did, and he weren’t the bastard he probably was, I’d feel the same way. And...well, if anyone ever hurt Lissa…”

He stopped talking. His eyes were downcast, towards the dark stone floor, as new thoughts apparently occurred to him.

When he looked back up, he said, “I can’t stop you. There are tunnels out of the city, and up to the surface.”

“I promise you,” Gerome said, standing back up, “he won’t hurt Lissa. He won’t have the chance.”

Gaius and Brady - the latter much less enthusiastically - accompanied him out of the makeshift infirmary. Together the odd trio made their way through old tunnels that looked to be ancient, long forgotten bunkers and wine cellars. Gerome was surprised Gaius was able to get around so effectively, before remembering that the prince had once been a common burglar.

Well, given the current situation, a burglar was more useful than a prince…

“Our main base is up ahead,” Gaius said. “It’s...underwhelming.”

It was. If Gerome hadn’t heard the phrase “main base,” he’d have assumed he had just walked into a nursing home.

He could see Lissa, Gaius’ wife and princess of Ylisstol, their son Owain, and their other son Owain - the one from his original timeline. Both were near the center of the room, practicing their swordplay - the baby Owain with a wooden toy - and making melodramatic grunts and striking entirely unnecessary poses as they did so.

Other than that, the room was filled with the sick, the elderly, and the wounded. About a dozen people in all, apparently those Gaius had been able to reach before Mort had put them under house arrest. Gaius’ heart had been in the right place - if anyone was unlikely to survive a sharp shove from an agitated Risen guard, it was someone in this lot - but it didn’t exactly make for an inspiring resistance movement.

“Hey there, boy,” came a raspy voice off to the side. Gerome looked to see a couch where a heavily scarred man wrapped in bandages was sitting.

“...Yes, sir?” Gerome asked, eyeing the stranger up warily.

“Hurts to walk. Can you get me a cup of water?” The burned man motioned to a station where food and drinks were being kept. Gerome gave a nod and walked over, poured some water into an old wooden mug, and brought it back over. The man gingerly reached out and took the mug, his bandaged hands barely able to grasp it.

“Thanks,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Gerome,” Gerome answered.

The burned man shook his head. “Not anymore it ain’t. These are different times, now…”

Gerome opened his mouth to respond, intending to ask what the man meant by that, when the Owains saw him.

“Gerome! As I live and breathe! I knew that the Hells would spit you back out before long!”

“‘Ga’rome!”

The older Owain wrapped him in a bear hug while the younger grabbed him by the leg. Gerome grunted awkwardly, half-heartedly patting his friend on the back before gingerly disengaging himself.

“Gerome has decided he’s going up to the surface,” Gaius explained.

Lissa joined the group, motherly concern etched across her face. “And you’re just going to allow that? There’s Risen all over the--”

“I told him,” Gaius said with a shrug. “You know how kids are. It wasn’t that long ago you wouldn’t be able to stop us from charging into certain death, eh?”

“Well,” Lissa said, conceding, “your mother will be happy to see you. If you go in the evening you should be able to sneak into her place.”

“This is exciting! Our very own recon team to scout out the enemy encampments!” Owain said, barely able to contain his glee.

“En’my ‘campments!” little Owain echoed.

“Er, right,” Gerome said. “I guess I should probably create a new identity for myself, in case I get questioned by any Risen or Plegians…”

“Lucky for you, Owain is always prepared for such inevitabilities!” his friend announced. “Here’s an alias I’ve been saving for a rainy day: Odin Dark!”

The room fell silent.

“Never say that name again,” Gerome said.

Owain deflated. Gerome sighed.

“Alright, I’ll consider using it if I have to. Ideally I just won’t get caught.”

Owain slightly re-inflated.

“By my reckoning, it’s almost evening,” Gaius said. “Hard to be sure down here, though. Still, you may want to hurry in order to sneak around when everyone is called to the castle square for the roll call. That’s when the Risen seem to have their hands full the most.”

Gerome nodded. “Right. Thank you. As soon as I’ve had a chance to speak with my mother and assess the situation, I’ll come back and report. I promise you, I’m not looking to die pointlessly.”

He said his temporary goodbyes to Lissa, Brady, and the Owains. As he was leaving, he walked past the burned man, who let out a hacking cough.

“Good luck, kid,” he said. “Would help you if I could, but it ain’t my time yet.”

Gerome paused, and turned to offer a polite bow. “I don’t believe I got your name, sir.”

The burned man coughed again, clearing his throat. “Roy.”

Gerome nodded. “Are these Plegians the ones who..?”

“Aye. Burned the villages on their way to the city. Just barely managed to get away,” Roy mumbled, before falling into another coughing fit.

“One more reason, then,” Gerome said, to himself more than anyone else. He turned to the exit Gaius was standing by.

“You’ll want to head straight through here, keep to the right at the bend, and climb the old ladder. It’ll lead to a trap door in the market district. Please don’t ask how I know about it.”

Gerome shook Gaius’ hand. “Thank you for your help. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

“Yeah, yeah. Look. I know you and Lucina...well, anyway. Don’t let yourself be blinded by hatred. Do what’s right, not just what feels good.”

Gerome gave the prince a confused look, but slowly nodded. “Yeah. Got it.”

He turned, and curtly walked off down the tunnel.

This exit tunnel was particularly dark and cramped. Partway down, Gerome had to hunch his shoulders and walk nearly bent at a right angle, and still the top of his head scraped against the ceiling. He turned right at the bend, hands outstretched to feel his way forward in the darkness. There, something cold and rusty...must be the ladder…

“Gerome! Wait up!”

He stood up straight in shock, smacking his head against the ceiling, and let out a curse.

“Oops, sorry, pal. Hey, where are--”

“Brady, stop--”

“Oof!”

Gerome was knocked into the ladder as Brady careened into him from behind. After a few moments of agitation, they managed to disentangle themselves.

“Brady, what is it? I don’t need any more healing. I’m fine,” Gerome said, not attempting to hide his annoyance.

“I’m coming with you, buddy. And don’t even try to start with talking me out of it.” Brady literally stomped his foot down, as well as figuratively. “You’re doing this for Lucina. I get it, you loved her. But she was my sister, okay?”

Gerome’s first impulse was to furiously enter a state of denial - love? Pathetic. Love a princess? Idiotic.

But then the full meaning of the words settled in. He nodded in silence, before realizing it was likely too dark for that gesture to be seen.

“Okay,” he said. “She was your sister. She meant the world to both of us. I cannot make you stay behind any more than you could make me.”

“Good. Now, get us outta here, this place is given me the heebie jeebies.”

Gerome shook his head. Good grief, this was his backup?

Nonetheless, he understood Brady’s plight. The young prince wasn’t a fighter, but he was scrappy and quick on his feet. Plus, he was fighting to avenge his family. Gerome knew what a motivator that could be.

“Come on, come on, I think I just saw a spider!”

Gerome sighed, and began to make his way up the ladder. It wasn’t too far a climb before he hit the trap door. There was a latch underneath, currently keeping it sealed shut from any unwelcome visitors up top. Clutching the ladder with his left arm, Gerome reached up with his right to fumble with it in the dark until he heard a ‘click’. With a grunt of effort, he pushed it up just enough to stick the top of his head through and peer around.

He recognized the market district, but it was empty. He had never seen it completely devoid of life before; even in the dead of night you could usually find people wandering from pub to pub or looking to discreetly offload some merchandise.

But the curfew the Risen had put on the city clearly did not allow for the thriving mercantile economy. Gerome wouldn’t have been surprised if a tumbleweed blew through.

He pushed the hatch open the rest of the way and crawled out. After a moment, Brady awkwardly scrambled out as well, his bulky frame and bad posture forcing him to contort his body into a bizarre shape in order to fit through the opening.

“Well this is creepy,” Brady mumbled. “Everybody must be at the castle square for the roll call.”

“Right…” Gerome agreed, and began to head off in that direction.

“Uh, Gerome? Hey, wait up!” Brady whimpered, rushing after him. “Shouldn’t we head to your ma’s place? We can probably jimmy a window and sneak in, wait for her to get back.”

“Soon,” Gerome answered. “But first I want to see this occupation force. Size it up.” And I want to see Mort, he added to himself. Remind me of my true goal: killing that son of a bitch no matter the cost.

“Oh, uh, okay,” Brady responded nervously. He was walking so close that Gerome could feel his breath on the back of his neck. “By the way, Gerome, it’s nice seein’ you without your mask for a change.”

“I think it would be best if we didn’t speak right now,” Gerome responded curtly.

“Oh. Okay. Yeah.”

They continued in silence. When they were only a few blocks away from the castle square, they could start to hear voices. Loud, angry voices, barking orders.

“You there, stay in line! I see you skulking back there, move up!”

Gerome pressed up against the side of a building and peered around to make sure the coast was clear. Spotting an open alleyway across the street, he darted for it, only hoping that Brady could follow without making a ruckus.

When they reached the other end of the alley, Gerome thrust out an arm to shove Brady back into the shadows. They remained perfectly still for a moment, and a patrol of two Risen walked past the opening, oblivious to their presence.

“This seems like a real bad idea,” Brady hissed. “There’s gonna be Risen everywhere!”

“Then turn back,” Gerome snapped. He watched the road intently, waiting, waiting…

The two Risen walked back, heading the other way. Gerome darted out and brought his axe across as hard as he could. It cut clean through the neck of the first Risen, and lodged into the neck of the second before it could even make a sound. Gerome caught both falling corpses in his arms and dragged them back into the alley, where he stashed them in the shadows.

“Uh,” said Brady, who Gerome was half-surprised to see was still there.

“I’m serious about this, Brady. If you want to head to Cherche’s house and meet me there…” Gerome offered.

“Just go! I’m right behind you.”

Gerome nodded, and continued into the street.

From only one street away, now, they could see the castle square packed with hundreds of people. There was barely any room for anyone to move. Armed guards - mostly Risen but with a few Plegian officers scattered about - ringed the Ylissean hostages.

Atop the castle steps stood Mort, grinning down at all of them. He looked positively beside himself with glee. His strongmen, Wulf and Joab, flanked him.

To their left, Gerome saw with horror that Libra and Severa were standing between two large Risen, chains around their hands and feet. Severa was glaring with hatred, her face badly bruised and covered in dry blood. Libra had also been beaten, but looked peaceful, serene.

Gerome inched as close to the crowd as he dared, hunched down, keeping to the shadows. He could hear Brady’s heavy, nervous breathing close by.

“Good evening, everyone. Thank you all for coming. I’m going to do something a little different tonight,” Mort called out over the silent, fearful crowd. “There are some people that I believe should be here in the city, that have not yet reported to be counted. I’m going to read off their names. If you hear your name, you will step forward. If you know someone on this list, you will step forward.”

Gerome and Brady exchanged a confused glance.

“If, by the time I reach the end of the list, no one has stepped forward, I will kill your guard captain,” Mort went on, waving his dagger in Severa’s direction. She continued to glare at him, unable to hate him any more than she already did.

“Who d’ya think he’s lookin’ for, pal?” Brady hissed. Gerome remained silent.

“A-hem. Laurent!” Mort called out, to the confused, silent crowd.

“Laurent!?” Brady gasped. Gerome clasped a hand over his mouth.

“Quiet, fool!” he whispered, but he was shocked too. Laurent didn’t exist. The one he knew, that he had considered a close friend and stalwart companion, had died by his side fighting against the Risen in their old timeline. His parents, Miriel and Gregor, had eloped not too long ago, but Gerome had no idea if the Laurent of this timeline even existed yet.

“No? I hope for pigtails over here’s sake that someone recognizes this next one: Noire!”

Brady bit down on Gerome’s hand in shock. Gerome removed his hand and shook it. Noire had died too! How did Mort know they had ever existed? What was going on?

Mort shook his head, emitting a “tsk, tsk, tsk,” sound. He stepped over to Severa, and placed his dagger against her throat. “Last one for tonight, everyone. Brady!”

Gerome and Brady looked at each other. Brady’s eyes were wide, filled with fear and horror. He began to shake uncontrollably.

“He’s gonna kill her,” he whimpered. “I don’t...I can’t…”

“Run,” Gerome said. “Back to the underground. Go!”

He stood up and charged - not backwards, but forwards. He aggressively shoved his way through the crowd, pushing guards and civilians alike. A murmur broke out from people observing the commotion. Mort, from atop his stage, looked towards him, a mad glint in his eye.

“I’m Brady!” Gerome shouted, when he had reached the front of the crowd.

He didn’t look behind him. He prayed the real Brady had had the sense to flee as he was told.

Mort made a motion towards Wulf and Joab. The two slowly made their way down the steps and grabbed Gerome by each arm, not-so-gently escorting him back up to the Plegian king.

Gerome’s eyes met Severa’s. For the first time, her look of anger had started to give way to one of fear.

“You are Brady?” Mort asked.

“Yes,” Gerome responded without hesitation.

Mort looked over the crowd. “People of Ylisse! Return to your homes. Curfew is in effect.” The various Risen and Plegian guards began to roughly shove people out of the square. Mort turned away from them, looking towards his new prisoner. “I have need of you, Brady. You work for me now.”

Gerome allowed himself a smug laugh, which he was pleased to see annoyed Mort. “Why would I do that?”

Mort shrugged. “If you so much as raise a finger against me in disobedience, I will have my Risen pick a child at random, pluck him out of his mother’s arms, and slit his throat in front of you. I hold all the cards here, Brady. Thousands of cards.”

“The cards is a metaphor for hostages,” Joab said.

“He understood, you cretin!” Mort snapped.

Gerome slowly nodded. “What do you need me to do?”

Mort’s attitude changed from rage to joy in an instant. He’s completely mad, Gerome thought. Perhaps he is Gangrel’s son.

“Plenty of time to discuss all that. Won’t you join me in the castle? Throw those two back in the dungeon. If the girl gives you any more lip, break all the fingers on her sword hand.”

The guards grabbed Severa and Libra and dragged them off. Gerome wanted desperately to call out to them, to tell them he had a plan, that he knew what he was doing, that everything would be okay.

None of those things were true, but he wanted to say them.

Mort had already begun walking into the castle. He turned and said with annoyance, “come!”

Gerome glared, but followed. He didn’t have a plan, he didn’t know what he was doing. Things would quite possibly never be okay again.

But he knew for certain, that no matter how many innocent children this madman threatened to kill, Gerome would see him dead.

Even if it kills me, he thought. I’ll drag you down to hell with me.


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nah and Lucina ride north to Regna Ferox. It is very cold. Nah is not good with children. Unnatural forces and mysterious antagonists are encountered.

Chapter 5  
Time - Early evening, 4 days after the Harvest Festival  
Place - Deep woods, east of the Northroad

I flip this coin. It’ll either land on heads, or tails. Right? Now...what if the wind had caught it just ever so slightly to cause one extra rotation, and it landed tails? What if we had based an important decision on the coin flip? Heads you turn left, tails you turn right. That one gust of wind could end up changing your life forever. In this world, the coin landed heads, you turned left, you walked into a village, met the love of your life, and lived happily ever after. In another world, the coin landed tails, you turned right, walked into a forest, and were mauled by a bear.

That’s what Anna had said.

Shit.

That had been Nah’s response.

At the time it had seemed like such a silly, hypothetical situation. But now Nah was staring straight ahead at a critical point of divergence not just for her, but for all of Ylisse. Her parents had died, then died again. Lucina had survived, only to die later. But there was still a chance to keep the younger version safe. To keep this world from plummeting into the same hopeless future as the one they had come from.

Also, there were probably literal bears in these woods.

“Nowi, I’m still cold,” Lucina whimpered. She had her hands wrapped around Nah’s waist as they rode at a gentle pace. Lucina was garbed in as many extra layers of clothing as Nah could spare. The cold was unnatural. Yes, it was nearing winter, and yes, the climate was harsher up north near Regna Ferox, but the wind was so cold it felt like a dagger stabbing straight through you.

And they still had a way to go yet.

“I know, Lucina,” Nah said, as gently and reassuringly as she could. “We’ll set up camp for the night soon. Just a bit farther.”

Progress was going slower than Nah would have liked. Lucina would try her best, but after a few hours of riding, the young princess would get irritably sore and tired and begin crying for a break. Emergency food and water supplies that Nah had been carrying had been rationed as well as she could between herself, the princess, and the horse, but now they were going to have to resort to hunting for food. Even the horse was starting to look worse for wear.

Nah shivered. She was down to her smallclothes, a thin overshirt, and dress leggings. The rest she had draped over Lucina.

“And I’m tired. And hungry. And I miss my mom. How long until we get there?”

Nah took a few deep breaths. She did not get along well with kids, but Lucina needed her to be calm and in control right now.

“Just a few more days,” she lied. Under ideal circumstances that would be accurate, but at their current pace they were looking at at least a week before they hit the border of Regna Ferox. The weather was only getting worse as they moved further north, too. That would slow things down even further.

“I’m bored. Did you bring any games?”

Nah gritted her teeth. You can do this. You’re not going to kill a child.

“Nowi. Nowi! Nowi. Nowi!”

“I have an idea!” Nah finally shouted. “I’ll teach you how to hunt. We need the food, and it is a task that will require us to be very, very, very silent.”

“Okay!” Lucina said, bouncing with excitement.

Nah scanned the area for a good spot to tether the horse. After dismounting and helping Lucina to the ground, she realized a flaw in her plan.

“We don’t have a bow. Okay, that’s okay.” She recalled a scene she had once witnessed between her mother and Morgan’s father. The two had been competing to see who could knock out a wild animal by throwing a rock at the beast’s head. At the time it had seemed idiotic and juvenile, but right now it seemed like the best course of action. She wasn’t about to go using her magic or dragonstone in front of Lucina. Her powers were too volatile, and, well, she had to admit that she’d frightened children before.

“Find a rock,” she said. “A big, round one. Light enough to carry around but heavy enough to hurt. And be careful with it!”

“Okay,” Lucina said.

Nah went walking around the area of the forest they were in, inspecting the ground. She found a likely looking stone, picked it up and waved it back and forth, testing the weight. Seemed like a keeper.

There were also clear animal tracks in the underbrush. A deer, if they were lucky. A wolf if they were less so. And if they happened across a bear, well, Nah would have no choice but to transform, though the tracks were much too small for that to be likely.

“Got one!” Lucina shouted. Without turning around, Nah held up a hand.

“Shh!” she hissed. “Get close to me, and follow me lead, but be as quiet as you can!”

She felt Lucina rush over to her, completely unable to move with anything approaching grace or stealth. The young girl crouched near her, her face set in grim determination.

“I’m ready!” she whispered. “I’ve never killed anything before...I hope it’s not too cute.”

Nah hadn’t thought of that. She’d hate to have to make young Lucina kill something like a rabbit or doe, but if this was a matter of survival…

“Just come on. And no talking!”

She crept forward, Lucina following in her footsteps. She was no master tracker, but she knew enough. All of her friends from the future did. They had grown up in dire circumstances, no parents to coddle them, no fancy dinner parties. It had been kill or be killed from the start.

Nah had arguably had it the worst. Her parents had died early, when she was almost too young to remember them. She had been bounced around from various caretakers, many of whom had no interest in watching a child, especially one who was half dragon, half deranged Plegian sorcerer. She was a freak, and many people were quick to remind her.

All of her friends had their own problems, of course. They had all grown up fast. None of them would ever really know what it was like to be a child, in the way the versions of themselves from this timeline hopefully could.

Despite being lost in thought, a primal instinct told her to stop. She obeyed, holding out a hand to steady Lucina. The beast they were tracking was close.

Looking ahead, Nah saw a deer grazing in a small, open field. It was cute, unfortunately, but it would be good eating, damn better than the dry rations they’d been feasting on for days.

“Okay,” Nah whispered. “Are you ready?”

“Yes!” Lucina responded.

Telling the young princess to follow her lead, Nah slowly brought back her arm to ready a throw, steadied her aim, and let loose the rock, sending it soaring through the air to gracefully smack the deer right between the eyes…

...Is what she liked to think would have happened, if Lucina hadn’t immediately thrown her rock, loudly and clumsily, missing by several feet, and sending the deer scurrying off in a panic.

“Oops,” Lucina said, downcast.

“It’s okay!” Nah quickly said, desperate to cut off any crying before it could start. “We’ll just find another rock for you and go try again. And next time wait until my say so, okay?”

“I want to find my first rock again,” Lucina said meekly. “It was the pretty one I got from your bag.”

Nah’s stomach dropped, but in retrospect she really should have seen that coming.

“My dragonsto-- I mean, my pretty rock?” She fought to keep her voice steady. She didn’t want to start shrieking at the poor kid. Well, okay, she did, but knew she shouldn’t.

“I’m sorry! I’ll find it really quickly, I promise.”

Lucina quickly set to work scurrying through the area where the deer had been grazing, looking for the dragonstone amidst the overgrowth. Nah rubbed her temples. When this was all over, she was never stepping foot in a forest again.

“Okay. You look for it. I’ll see if I can pick up the deer’s track.” In truth, she just needed a moment to clear her head. She knew it wasn’t Lucina’s fault; she didn’t ask to be in this situation either. But it was all starting to be a bit much for her fraught nerves.

The path that the deer had gone crashing through was fairly easy to pick up. Nah only walked a few steps along it, knowing she couldn’t leave Lucina alone for long. She stood on her toes to look as far around as she could, but there was no sign of the deer, or of any other wildlife.

Her stomach gurgled. She had been looking forward to an actual meal…

Her stomach growled. Gosh, that was embarrassingly loud, Nah thought to herself, before she felt a gust of hot air hit her.

That wasn't my stomach, was it.

She turned around very slowly. A bear was standing behind her, watching her. It was huge, larger than any bear she had ever seen, and it’s fur seemed to crackle as if alive with magical energy. And it didn’t move, simply sat there, breathing out, studying her.

Nah stared right back, slowly inching backwards. Right now it didn’t seem to feel like attacking, but that could change at a moment’s notice. She had to get to Lucina. She had to keep Lucina safe, no matter what. She wouldn’t let the last Lucina die.

What was this beast, though? The more she stared at it - and the more it stared back, clearly intelligent, clearly contemplative - the more she became convinced it wasn’t a regular beast. Something about it WAS magical. But what was it? And why was it taking such a keen interest in her?

“Lucina?” she called out, quietly. “Have you found my pretty stone?”

“N-no,” Lucina called back, clearly nervous. Nah was unwilling to turn her head to look at the girl.

“It’s okay. Do you know how to climb trees?”

“Y-yeah! Owain and I sometimes--”

“Find a tall tree and climb it, Lucina. And don’t come down until I say so.”

Could bears climb trees? If any bear could, it would be this one. Shit.

Nah kept inching back until she was in the clearing where her dragonstone presumably lay. She could hear Lucina grunting as she scaled her way up one of the denser trees.

The bear got up and began slowly moving forwards, clearly in no hurry, but the fact that it was following at all just increased Nah’s worry.

She scanned the ground, her heart pounding faster and faster. If she could just find her dragonstone, she’d at least have a way to fight back, if it came to it.

Something caught her eye. There!

But the bear noticed, and began to growl. Hair stood up on it’s back, and that strange magical energy began to crackle again.

It was now or never. Nah dove for it.

“Run, Nowi, run!” Lucina screamed.

She snatched the dragonstone up just as the bear lunged for her. It slapped a massive paw into her and she went flying, tumbling through the air. The dragonstone zipped out of her hands, away from the foliage, landing along the shore of a small lake, the surface of which had frozen over with a thin layer of ice.

Nah picked herself up, grateful that the bear’s sharp claws hadn’t raked across her. She was disoriented, but not grievously wounded. The bear was charging after her again, however; she picked up the pace and ran for her dragonstone.

When she reached it, she bent down to pick it up without stopping. She ran out onto the frozen lake and spun around.

The bear had stopped, sitting on the shore to watch her. It still looked angry, as if she had personally offended it somehow.

“What the hell are you!?” Nah screamed at it. “Who sent you!?”

The wind began to pick up, painfully cold, biting through her. Snow began to fall.

Suddenly it dawned on her. The freak snow storm cutting off Regna Ferox from Ylisstol! Magical beasts patrolling the land!

This was no accident. Mort must have been behind this somehow! If he could summon Risen, he - or someone working with him - could do this!

“Mort!” she screamed. “You’re not stopping us! We’re bringing Chrom home, and we’re kicking your ass! I promise you! It’ll take more than a little--”

And then the ice broke.

Lucina watched from amidst the branches of her tree. One moment Nowi was standing there, shouting challenges at the bear or the wind or something, and the next she was gone. Cracks in the ice spread out like spiderwebs from the place where she had been standing. The ice cold water underneath splashed for a moment as she thrashed beneath the surface, and then it went still.

Bubbles stopped coming up. Lucina closed her eyes and hugged the base of the tree as hard as she could.

Then she opened her eyes back up. No way! She wasn’t some crybaby about to let her friend drown! She had to save her!

Slowly and carefully, she began to slide back down the tree. Some of the tiny, dry branches scraped against her, but it didn’t really hurt. Mostly it was just the sticky sap that was annoying.

She hit the snow and rushed for the water as fast as her tiny legs could carry her--

\--And was knocked backwards by the overwhelming physical force of a roar from the bear, looming over her.

“Go away!” Lucina screamed, grabbing a nearby stick and throwing it in the bear’s face. The creature hardly flinched, continuing to approach, slowly, teeth bared, saliva dripping…

“Help!” she screamed, continuing to crawl backwards. “Nowi! Nowi!”

The lake exploded. Lucina had heard of hot springs and geysers but had never seen one in person. Water, no longer icy cold but now as warm as bathwater, cascaded down around her and the bear.

And in another moment a massive beast, of a breed Lucina had only ever seen in picture books, swooped down through the sky, picked up the bear, and flew off again.

Lucina looked up into the sky, the clouds rolling in, snow falling harder. She shivered. What had just happened?

I mean, it was AWESOME. But what was it?

From far off, she heard a yelp, and a thud - as if a large, magical bear had been dropped from a significant height. Then the other beast, large pink wings extended, circled overhead, and slowly descended…

“Nowi! Nowi, help!” Lucina screamed again, as the dragon approached her. She had narrowly escaped death from one beast, only to find it at the claws of another!

Lucina dove into the snow, covering her head with her hands. The dragon landed on her.

Slowly, carefully, Lucina unfolded herself, and peeked around. She was in a protective, warm cave, and it took her a moment to realize the dragon had wrapped its wings over her.

“Nowi..?” she called out again. “Nowi, I’m in here! Under the dragon…”

“It’s okay,” came a voice from nearby.

“Nowi?”

“I’m here,” the dragon said.

“Oh no! The dragon ate you!” Lucina gasped.

“I am the dragon, Lucina,” Nah explained. “Stay there, okay? I’m going to keep you warm until the storm passes.”

Lucina sat down in the snow and looked at the makeshift home around her. It was, in an odd way, rather cozy.

“But what about you? Will you be okay?” she asked.

“I’ll be fine,” Nah said, though there was a weariness in her voice. Staying in dragon form all night in the snow would take a lot out of her, but it was okay. She was tough.

“I’m not going to let anything hurt you, Lucina. I promise.”


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerome gets a new job. A visit with his mother goes poorly. Gaius, Brady, and Roy plot a rebellion. Mort constructs a gate.

Chapter 6  
Time - Evening, 4 days after the Harvest Festival  
Place - Ylisstol

The city is burning and my friends are dead…

That had certainly been the case the last time Gerome had looked out over the city from a balcony of the royal palace. Despite his friendship with Lucina and her royal parents, he hadn’t exactly sought out the opportunity to rub elbows with the upper crust of Ylisse.

Now, as he waited to speak with Mort, he didn’t really have much of a say in the matter. He’d be rubbing elbows alright. Gods willing he’d soon get the chance to ram his elbow into that psychotic tyrant’s throat.

He hadn’t actually seen much of Mort since he had announced himself as Brady and been told he could not leave the palace. He had been kept under close watch. His attempts to nonchalantly discover why they had been looking for Brady were met with unconvincing assertions that they were simply cross checking the census data to see who hadn’t been showing up for the headcounts.

Of course, he didn’t buy that for a second. Mort had called out three names in succession: Laurent, Noire, Brady. Two were dead, and all three had come from a timeline that no longer existed. No one outside of his close circle of friends, who had traveled through time with him, and their heroic parents they had reunited with, knew about this.

He had called Lucina a princess, too. Shortly before he had murdered her.

Who was this guy? How could he possibly know about them?

Gerome was forced to admit that no amount of brooding now would give him any answers. He would have to play along for now and gather what information he could. Then, as soon as he could strike back…

A cool evening breeze blew against his naked, unmasked face. The night sky was a vibrant purple. The city below was silent. It would almost be peaceful, were it not for the Risen guards patrolling every street. The silence was forced, unnatural.

He could suddenly hear muffled yelling behind him. Mort was in his chambers, meeting with some lackey of his. Apparently he was receiving unpleasant news, which warmed Gerome’s spirits considerably.

Gerome strained to eavesdrop, picking up what sounded like “let her get away” and “just a child.” He thought on this for a moment, then recalled what Gaius had told him - that Nah was sent north to retrieve Chrom and as many soldiers as she could to help liberate Ylisstol. Perhaps she was continuing to evade capture. Atta girl.

He could hear more angry demands, phrases like “any means necessary” standing out amongst the rest. Gerome continued to strain to hear, but quickly went back to looking nonchalantly over the city as the door to the balcony started to open.

The entrance was eclipsed by the colossal figure of Wulf.

The two men locked gazes. It was a vicious, intense, primal stare-down. These were the glares that had started wars between entire tribes of cavemen.

Without blinking, Gerome said, “does your master wish to see me?”

Wulf snorted. Gerome had been hoping the ‘master’ comment might get under his skin, but the big Plegian did not appear to take the bait.

“Soon,” Wulf responded. There was a tense moment of silence before he went on. “You wish to fight me. I can see it in your eyes. Mort says you are useful to us alive right now, though I do not know how anyone so weak and frail could be of use to anyone. As soon as he says you are no longer useful, I will grant you your fight. I will break every bone in your body and beat you with my bare hands until you are dead.”

Gerome stood his ground, still not breaking eye contact. As he and Wulf stood face to face, he was surprised to see they were the same height. From a distance the man looked much taller, perhaps due to how confidently he carried himself.

“Perhaps,” Gerome acknowledged. “I am sure it will be a good fight, whoever may win.”

Wulf chuckled, clearly entertained by the fact Gerome could even imagine a victory.

“Enough talk. Your master will see you, now.”

Wulf moved aside, motioning for Gerome to head back into the palace.

Gerome walked past him, unafraid. He was not rattled by threats. Speaking in front of a crowd made him nervous, as did the prospect of intimacy, but a brutal fight to the death? If anything it made his blood stir, made him feel more alive.

With Wulf following behind him, he made his way through one of the beautiful corridors of Castle Ylisstol. The image of such a famous icon of peace and hope defiled by Risen and murderous Plegians only further fueled his hatred. Mort had set up his chambers in a former war room that had so frequently been occupied by Robin, Chrom’s closest friend and tactician. Joab was parked in front of the closed door, leaning lazily on a pike while one hand dug around in his ear.

“Howdy, Brady,” Joab said with a giggle. “How’ve your accomodations been? Food alright? Can I get you someone to help warm ya bed? A nice girl? We can pluck a nice young street urchin, drop her off for ya.”

Gerome ignored the crass man while he cackled to himself.

The door opened, and a woman exited. Gerome got only a quick look at her before she darted off down the hallway, but something struck him as odd. As he watched her retreating form, it struck him: her ears. The only people he had ever seen with long, pointed ears like that had been Manakete.

“I sympathize, man, that one’s got a great ass,” Joab said, apparently noticing Gerome staring at the retreating woman. “Boss wants to see you now, though. So get your pecker out of your hand and go on in. Heheheh!”

Grateful, at least, to not have to be within sight, sound or smell of Joab, Gerome entered Mort’s room. The door was closed behind him.

A large oak table stood in the center of the room, atop which were a variety of large maps, figurines depicting troop deployment, and books on strategy. Seeing it brought memories rushing back, of Lucina urging him to attend these strategy meetings during the campaigns against the Conqueror in Valm, and against the Grimleal in Plegia. At first he had refused, unwilling to pretend he was any more than a simple grunt, one of the pawns on the table rather than the hand that moved it. Eventually he had relented, and helped Lucina, Chrom and Robin plan their way to victory.

Now the map showed a different conflict; Mort had mapped out where the current Ylissean forces were stationed. Frederick and Cordelia, Ylisstol’s two top military leaders other than his father, were in Valm with a large contingent of soldiers, helping the Valmese people rebuild and replenish after the previous war. Chrom, his royal guard, and their Feroxi allies were to the north, and Mort had drawn a large red X through the countryside between them and Ylisstol. That was, admittedly, a bit concerning.

There was a clearing of the throat, and Gerome looked up. Mort stood across from him, leaning on the table, smiling genially.

“Ahh, Brady! Good of you to make it,” said the Plegian king. “I trust you’ve been enjoying your stay in the palace?”

Gerome fixed him with an icy stare. “What do you want?”

“Tsk, tsk,” Mort said with a sigh. “No tact, no diplomacy. Ah, well, we can’t all be graced with my charisma. We’re not all natural born leaders. Some of us just do what they’re told. Are you good at doing what you’re told, Brady?”

Gerome looked down at the table between them. He feared if he maintained eye contact much longer he would lunge across and throttle the smug bastard. But his threat rang in his ears...If you so much as raise a finger against me in disobedience, I will have my Risen pick a child at random, pluck him out of his mother’s arms, and slit his throat in front of you…

“What do you want?” he asked again, struggling to keep his voice calm.

Mort leaned forward, cracking his knuckles against the wooden table as he did so. “Where were you the past three days, Brady? We’ve been keeping close tabs on everyone. Headcounts every evening before curfew, cross-checking with the census information for city residents. But some people who should be here haven’t been showing up. That’s not fair to everyone else, now is it?”

Gerome looked back up. He had to exude confidence, make himself look honest, believable.

“I saw the Risen coming and got scared,” he said. “So I hid. That’s all.”

“Oh, that’s all?” Mort asked, continuing to speak in an infuriatingly condescending tone of voice. “I thought we were fairly thorough in our search. It must have been a rather good hiding place. I wonder if anyone else could have fit in there with you?”

Gerome said nothing.

“Look at me, Brady,” Mort said, and something about his voice was...compelling. Gerome looked up, as if his head was not entirely under his own control.

What kind of power was this?

“I’m going to stop beating around the bush,” Mort said, picking up one of the small wooden soldiers on the table and idly running his fingers along it. “We’re missing some VIPs that are here, somewhere in the city. Hiding, like you were. I need to find them, and I think you can help me.”

“VIPs…?” Gerome asked, determined to play dumb even if Mort clearly wasn’t buying it.

“With Chrom and Maribelle in Regna Ferox, the affairs of the city are in the hands of Lissa, Chrom’s younger sister, and Gaius, her husband. Both were seen the day of the attack, and I have good reason to believe they did not leave. So they’re here, somewhere in the city. Hiding.”

Gerome kept his face and mind blank.

“You want me to help you find them?” he asked.

“Yes. And of course the whole killing a child thing still applies. I don’t deal well with disobedience. My father probably never hugged me enough, who can say.”

Gerome slowly nodded, making sure his muscles were under his own control again.

What choice did he have? At least pretending to go along with it for now would buy him some time to think of a plan. Maybe he could warn Gaius and Lissa, help them prepare for the worst…

“I’ll try,” he said. “But I cannot promise anything. I did not see them earlier…” Was he a good liar without his mask? Perhaps Mort was reading him like an open book. It was probably a book with lots of big pictures and single-syllabic words.

“Oh, that’s all I can ask. Be resourceful! I’m sure you have it in you.” Mort clapped his hands, and the door to the hall opened. “You’re free to go.”

Gerome glanced over his shoulder at Wulf and Joab, flanking the door, eyeing him with clear malice.

“Go? You mean...leave the keep?” he asked, hesitantly.

“Well, I can’t expect you to find someone hiding in the city while you’re trapped in here, can I? Come on, Brady, I’m not that unreasonable!” Mort waved a hand, and Wulf and Joab moved further apart, making the doorway look a bit less threatening. “My men, and the Risen, will know not to hassle you. Well, they may hassle you a little. Have to keep up appearances and all.”

Gerome stood there a moment longer. This was all a bit much to take in. He had played at strategy a few times, to make Lucina happy, but at his core he was just a soldier. He knew, if he had an axe in his hand, and if so much more weren’t at stake, he could end this here and now.

But as it was, it felt like Mort was running laps around him.

The Plegian conqueror had turned away, apparently completely engrossed in some other matter. Gerome turned to leave. If his brain wasn’t going to help him out of this mess, perhaps his gut would.

As he passed by Wulf and Joab, he heard them mutter something just low enough that he couldn’t hear it. Joab chuckled, that laugh that made Gerome feel like he was crawling in bed bugs.

The guards, Risen and Plegian alike, gave him dark, mistrustful glances as he made his way down the palace hallways to the front gate. He ignored them, gaze focused straight ahead, posture straight. Show no fear, show no hesitation.

From the upper halls of the castle, he wound his way down to the throne room. The large chamber had been the site of their final stand back in the future. He had seen it dwindle over time from a bastion of human resistance to a crumbling ruin.

Now it was filled with hustle and bustle once again, but it was Risen and Plegians scurrying about. It took Gerome a few moments of irritated confusion before he realized what they were even doing.

Mort was...redecorating?

The entire back wall of the throne room, behind the throne itself, was being meticulously torn down. In its place, a large metal frame was being set up. Apparently Mort had grand ideas about what he wanted his castle to look like.

This was bizarre, and a further example of Mort’s complete disregard for anything sacred, but Gerome couldn’t get too bothered about it right now. There were more important things to do.

As he stepped outside, the last few vibrant rays of pink and purple from the setting sun were fading into pure, inky blackness. Something about it felt almost oppressive, unnatural. Gerome suppressed a shiver as he made his way down the castle steps.

So, he was a free man. Allegedly. Where to first?

He walked at a steady pace, keeping himself looking calm, unhurried, nonchalant. A few Risen patrols, armed and carrying torches for visibility, marched through the streets in a steady, symmetrical pattern. Whenever one spotted Gerome, they would glower for a moment, but then move on. Mort’s message had gotten around fast. Did he have some hold on these creatures, the way he had briefly compelled Gerome himself? Did the entire army truly operate based on Mort’s willpower?

As he moved away from the castle, the Risen patrols grew more sparse. He watched as one duo, starkly outlined by their torches, turned a corner onto an adjacent street, leaving him alone in perfect darkness. He quickly hunched down and ducked into an alleyway.

A few trash cans, evident from the smell that they had been left unattended since the occupation began, were stacked up along a wall. He walked past at first, then paused, backed up a bit, and made a dramatic show of clumsily knocking one over. Then he hustled, head down, to the far end of the alleyway, around a corner, and promptly doubled back towards where he had started in a parallel alley, nimbly dodging obstacles in his path without making a sound.

When he was back at the street he had started on, he saw two Risen, quite conspicuously not using any torches, inspecting the alleyway with the knocked-over trash can.

Free to go, indeed, eh? Maybe Mort really did think he was an idiot…

He lurked up behind the two Risen as they inspected the entrance to the alleyway, and in a swift, brutal motion, grabbed their heads and brought them together, cracking their skulls and letting them slump to the ground. He then picked them up, one at a time, and stuffed them into the trash.

That made him feel a little better. Now to go see mom.

And as he made his way off, thinking himself incredibly clever, Joab suppressed a giggle and oozed back into the darkness to follow.

 

His parents had never seemed truly at home in the estate Chrom had gifted them after the war. They were grateful, certainly, and it was a wonderful environment to start a family in. But his mother had a warrior’s heart and his father had grown up wading through pig shit. Something about that just didn’t mesh with cobblestone pathways and elegant gardens.

Gerome hunched down amidst the foliage that many of the other high-class Ylisseans liked to keep on display in their front yards. A few flickering lights ahead indicated that the Risen were still patrolling, and after taking care to lose his personal tail, he was in no hurry to go announcing his presence again. He was not going to get his mother dragged into this. In fact, a rather persistent voice in the back of his mind was saying he shouldn’t visit her at all. He had already lost his father again. If he wasn’t careful, history might continue to repeat itself…

But she deserved to know he was okay. Especially if she had been there in the square to witness him brazenly claiming to be Brady, and getting marched into the castle.

As going up to the front door and knocking seemed like a poor plan of action, Gerome hunched down and made his way around to the back of the house. There was an old wall covered in thick vines, not because his parents had been lazy with the yardwork, but because apparently walls covered in old vines made a place look more distinguished. It was all very silly to Gerome, but at the moment he was thankful for this bizarre tradition.

Taking one last look around to make sure no guards were coming, he began to quickly and effortlessly climb the wall until he reached a second story window. On the off chance the Gods were currently taking pity on him, he gave it a quick push. They weren’t, of course; the window was locked tight.

Hanging on to the vines with his left arm, he reached into a pocket with his right hand and grabbed a small, sharp rock. In a swift, powerful motion, he smashed it through a lower corner of the window, cracking the glass just enough to push the pane out of the sill. He lowered it to the floor as quietly as possible, before following into the building.

He looked around the dark room he had landed in. It was a den, meant for lounging about with guests. It didn’t appear to have been used in a while.

He’d check his parents bedroom first, see if his mom was in there...hopefully he wouldn’t scare her by suddenly popping up like this, but…

The blade of an axe pressed lightly against his throat. A soft voice whispered by his ear, “you picked the wrong house.”

He froze, his body instinctively breaking out in a cold sweat. Damn, she hadn’t lost her touch…

“It’s me,” he stammered. “Mother…”

The axe moved away, giving him a bit of breathing room. He spun around to see his mother, standing in the dark, studying him.

“Gerome,” she whispered. “I’m so glad to see you.” She embraced him warmly, and Gerome felt himself overcome with emotion, burying his face in her shoulder, shrouded by her long red hair.

They stayed there for a few minutes, frozen in time. Each knew they weren’t likely to have many more peaceful moments like this for the foreseeable future.

When they separated, Cherche was laughing lightly, tears glistening in her eyes. “Thank you for coming to visit me. I know it must have been risky...though I admit, I’d rather you hadn’t broken the window…”

“Sorry,” Gerome said, smiling awkwardly. Even with his own mother, even in such a heartfelt moment, he could feel his face start to burn as she looked at him. He yearned for a mask to hide behind.

“I’m kidding,” Cherche clarified. “Break all the windows you like, if it means I get to see you’re okay.” She had put her axe down, and was lighting some candles to give the room a more cozy feel.

“Were you just waiting in here for someone to show up…?” he asked, a bit unsettled by that behaviour.

“Gaius and Lissa went missing when the occupation began,” Cherche replied. “If they were taken, I worried they’d come for me next…”

Gerome cut her off, grateful to have a bit of good news to give her. “Gaius and Lissa are fine,” he said. “They’re underground, hiding with Owain, Brady, uh, Owain again, and some sick and wounded refugees. Gaius was the one who helped me get back into the city.” He decided his mother didn’t need to hear that the prince had managed this by bashing him over the head and dragging his unconscious body.

Cherche breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. I’ve stayed here because so far it’s seemed safer than attempting to get Minerva and make a break for it. But if they made any indication that they would hurt me or my son…”

“...How is Gerome doing?” Gerome asked, the words still sounding strange even after all these years.

Cherche let out a dejected sigh. “Thankfully he’s still young enough to not really understand what’s going on. After Nah came by and told me about Donnel, I…” here she struggled to continue speaking, though it was clearly difficult. “I sat him down and explained that his father had gone away, and wouldn’t be coming back. He...he thinks he’s off on some grand adventure, somewhere across the sea. Perhaps, in a way, he’s right…”

She wiped her tears away with her sleeve. Gerome continued to stand there, a few feet away, watching her. He wanted to say: I was once told both of my parents would never be coming back. At least he still has you. I lost everything, and I turned out…

But here he stood, unable to bring himself to offer a comforting pat on the shoulder to his grieving mother. He hadn’t turned out just fine. His time in the dead future had broken him.

And history was repeating itself.

“Mort has allowed me to get close to him,” Gerome said, instead. “He wants me to help find Gaius and Lissa. I’ll play along while I can, but I promise you, as soon as the opportunity arises, I will strike him down. I will avenge Donnel.”

Cherche looked at him for a long moment. Gerome knew the fierce heart of a warrior that beat within his mother’s chest. She had fought a wyvern into submission as a teenager. Beat back armies of Risen. Fought tooth and nail on the Valmese front against the infamous Walhart the Conqueror. If there was anyone who would be sympathetic to the fury in his heart…

Then she shook her head. “I don’t want you putting yourself at risk, Gerome,” she said.

Gerome was taken aback by this. He frowned. “I’m at risk every day that I’m here in this city. We all are. But if I have this opportunity, to right so many wrongs--”

“It wouldn’t be righting any wrongs to make me lose my son, in addition to my husband!” Cherche snapped.

“I’m not your son!” Gerome snapped back. He saw the hurt look on her face, but fury propelled him forward. “My parents are dead! My princess is dead! Any purpose I had, any excuse to keep on living, has been torn away from me! But your real son, the real Gerome, still has a chance! If I can kill Mort and end this occupation, and give you and him a chance to live a normal, happy life again, then even if it costs me my life, it will have been worth it! I won’t have another version of me grow up broken and filled with hate!”

Cherche continued to stare at him, speechless, the tears in her eyes drying.

“Hate is all I have left,” Gerome continued. “I watched a woman I love die in front of me. And I didn’t feel sadness, or remorse. I felt hate. I should have died in that attack on the Harvest Festival, but hate pushed my body through it. It’s all that’s keeping me alive.”

Cherche appeared about to respond, but her mouth seemed to have gone dry. She cleared her throat and turned her head away.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “But I don’t believe that. There’s something else in there, keeping you going.”

Gerome shook his head. “I shouldn’t stay any longer. My presence here is putting you and your son in danger.”

He pushed past her, across the room, and crawled out the window through which he had entered. Gripping the vines, he turned and looked back, at his mother standing there watching him, discernable emotion gone from her face.

“I’m sorry about the window,” he said, awkwardly, before dropping to the ground.

 

Two different voices dominated his mind as he walked through the dark, empty city.

One said: you should go back and apologize. You are her son, and it was cruel to take that away from her. Yes, tensions are high, but Gods forbid, what if something happens? Do you want your last moments with her to have been spent in anger?

The other said: She is strong, and can handle it. I am a realist, and have never been one to sugar coat a situation to spare the feelings of another. Every word I spoke was the truth, and though it may have been difficult to hear, it was necessary to say.

The second voice was louder at the moment, but the first was still awfully persistent…

A third voice chimed in. This one was familiar, and it said: there is danger present, behind and to the right.

The other voices quickly shut up. Part of him was frankly relieved that he could stop worrying about an argument with his mother and focus on something much easier, like people trying to kill him.

He continued to walk normally, casually, acting as if he thought he was truly alone. Only when an alley opened up on his right did he suddenly duck inside, wait for a moment in the pitch black, then lunge forward when a figure tried to sneakily round the corner after him--

The figure flew backwards, landing on its ass. This was the desired result, yes, but it was a bit odd as Gerome had not yet actually thrown a punch.

“Damnit, Gerome, you’re gonna give me a heart attack! Sheesh…” hissed Brady, arms held up over his head in a position of abject surrender.

Gerome sighed, and offered a hand to help him up.

“What are you doing, out and about? Were you following me?” Gerome growled.

“I just wanted to talk to ya, but I wasn’t exactly about to go yellin’ your name to get your attention, y’know? Seems like a good way to have every Risen in the district come use our guts for garters,” Brady explained, looking sullenly at the ground.

“Okay. I’m sorry I almost punched you,” Gerome said, wondering if a punch with all his strength behind it would kill the poor kid. “But it’s dangerous out here! They’re looking for you! You should have stayed underground with the others.”

“He did stay with us,” came another voice, and Gerome suddenly realized that Gaius was there, in the darkness beside him, and quite possibly had been this entire time. “Brady came rushing down to tell us about how you claimed to be him, and were taken into the castle by Mort.”

“You didn’t have to do that, ya know…” Brady quietly mumbled.

“We figured you’d be able to hold out for a while, but it sort of threw our ‘just wait for Chrom’ plan out the window,” Gaius explained. “The odds may be against us, but we’re not just gonna sit around and let you get killed.” Gaius quirked an eyebrow, as if suddenly realizing something. “Although...given that you’re currently out and about...did you manage to escape?”

“No!” Gerome replied. “Mort sent me out to find you and Lissa! He…” Gerome gulped. He debated not telling the truth; what if Gaius decided to turn himself in, let himself get executed out of some noble desire to save innocent lives?

Gaius watched him, concern apparent in his eyes. “He what? What is he threatening?”

Gerome gave in. “He said he’d start murdering innocent children if I don’t do what he says.”

The three of them all fell silent. 

Finally, Gerome broke it. “We can’t give in to him, Gaius. You can’t just surrender yourself and Lissa. He’ll have you both publicly executed!”

Gaius remained quiet, tapping his chin, pondering his options.

“The guy is a sick son of a bitch,” he mumbled. “Threatens to murder kids to get his way. Guy like that might just murder kids for fun anyway. Then we’ll have died for nothing.”

“Right,” Gerome said, nodding adamantly. “So we have to find some other way, some way to fight back, to rebel, even if…”

Gaius held up a hand. “We’re not letting him hurt any more innocents, either. We were already up here, right? And we weren’t just going to storm the castle to free you. We have a plan.”

Brady slapped Gerome excitedly on the shoulder. “It’s gonna be great, pal. We’re gonna help start a whole rebellion!”

Gerome looked between the two princes, hoping for a better explanation. “A...rebellion? But Mort has more Risen than we have soldiers. Not to mention the fact that everyone’s weapons were...confi...scated…”

He trailed off, looking in awe as Gaius pulled a burlap sack out from the shadows behind him, tipping it forward and loosening the top just enough for Gerome to see the pile of weaponry that sat inside.

“They were behind lock and key, yeah,” Gaius said with a grin. “Which means it took me about thirty seconds longer to get them than if they had been laying under a big sign that said, ‘free weapons, please take.’”

“We’re gonna go sneakin’ around, hidin’ ‘em places where folks can get ‘em,” Brady said, clearly giddy with excitement. “Start spreadin’ the word to as many people as possible. Then during roll call, we swarm Mort - bam, pow, right in the kisser!”

“He controls the Risen,” Gaius explained. “We capture him, we neutralize the entire army. But we’ve got exactly one shot at this. If this rebellion fails, a lot of innocent people are going to get slaughtered. And Mort will see to it we don’t have a second chance.”

Gerome nodded, slowly. All things considered, it wasn’t a great plan. Too much reliance on chance, on untested fighters, on the enemy being caught unprepared. But it was a plan, which was more than he had been able to come up with himself.

“Is it just the two of you up here, spreading weapons? Seems like that would take a while. What about Owain?”

“Owain is still underground, guarding the entrance. Lissa and those we left behind will need help in the event of a sudden evacuation,” Gaius explained.

“We do have someone else, though,” Brady said.

On cue, another pair of slow, soft footsteps began to approach the alley where they were all currently lurking. There was a sound like a stone being dragged across a bed of gravel, and it took Gerome a moment to realize it was someone clearing their throat.

“Good to see you again, kid.” Gerome squinted, but could not see the figure in the darkness; too much of their face was covered, besides. He recognized the voice, however, a voice that sounded pained and hoarse, as if every word was a struggle to get out.

“Roy,” Gerome said, with a welcoming nod. “I admit, I’m surprised you’re up and about. Last I saw you, you said it hurt to walk.”

“Brady here is a fine healer,” Roy responded, slowly, deliberately, fully aware that to speak any less carefully would cause him undue agony. “Plenty else still hurts, but at least I can walk.”

“I admit, I thought he’d be a liability,” Gaius said, “but he insisted he come along, and he’s proven surprisingly nimble for someone who was one particularly bad cough away from death just a few days ago.”

“I will give my life to save my kingdom,” Roy said, “as many times as I can.”

Gerome stared at the bandaged figure for a moment. Something about that phrase seemed odd. Then something else struck him.

“When last we spoke, I told you my name was Gerome...and you said it wasn’t, not anymore. What did you mean by that?” Shortly afterwards, Gerome had pretended to be Brady, unexpectedly gaining a new name, in a sense. But the idea that this cripple was actually prophetic was a bit much to believe.

Roy was silent for a moment, apparently giving Gerome a long, searching look over. Finally he took a sharp inhalation of breath, and grunted, “you seem to be a good and noble man. I suspect men like that won’t last long here.”

Gerome slowly nodded. He was inclined to agree; with the latter, anyway.

“We can’t loiter here much longer,” Gaius announced. “We’ve got a lot more ground to cover before daybreak, and even being optimistic, we’re going to need a few productive nights of this.” He turned to Gerome, clasping him by the shoulder. “As for you…”

“I wish I could join you, but I would only put you in further danger,” Gerome responded. “Mort will be looking for me...expecting me to turn you in…”

“Right,” Gaius said with a nod, “which is why I have a special mission for you. I need you to stall. I don’t know how, and for that I’m sorry. But we need time, and you’re the only one in a position to buy it for us.”

Gerome hesitated. “I’ll...do what I can,” he said, “though I’m not sure what that will be.”

“That’s all I can ask,” Gaius admitted. “Just do your best. Without getting yourself maimed or killed, of course. Cherche would probably rip my limbs off if I let you get killed, and I’m rather attached to all of them, ha ha.”

Gerome’s mood darkened at the mention of that name. He turned away from the three of them.

“I should head back to the castle,” he said. “Get going. You’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Gaius and Brady shuffled past him, each patting him appreciatively on the back as they walked by. Roy stood by him for a moment longer.

“Take care, Gerome,” he said, and there was a warmth there that actually took Gerome off guard. For a moment - a brief, fleeting moment - he felt an inexplicably deep bond with this man who was essentially a stranger.

“Thanks,” Gerome said. He meant it. “You take care of yourself, too.”

Roy shuffled off after the two Princes, his dark, bandaged form soon melding into the shadows and disappearing completely.

Leaving Gerome alone with his thoughts, and without a clue what to do next.

 

Mort smiled, and Joab smiled back. As smiles went, they couldn’t be more different. Joab smiled with his entire face, his rotting and uneven teeth beaming for the whole world to see. Mort smirked, a slight quirking upwards of the ends of his lips. A snake could smile wider than that.

“Good work, friend,” Mort said, nodding appreciatively. “Take Wulf with you. Round them up. Yes, the child, too. Bring them to me, and try not to hurt them too badly.”

Joab nodded and turned away, walking down the steps from the throne. Wulf stood nearby, as he always did, armed with his massive battle-axe and ready for any confrontation that might present itself. He nodded as Joab approached, and together they made their way across the grand hall and back out into the quiet, dark streets of Ylisstol.

A few Risen guards were meandering about, but they hardly counted. Mort was used to ignoring them by now. He felt alone, comfortable, safe.

He turned away from the entrance, gazed upon the back wall of the throne room. His engineers had been hard at work ever since his little insurgent had left earlier. The framework continued to be built up, and now the large circular form of a gate was beginning to come into focus.

It would be a bit more time before it was completed, but he could already feel the power reverberating through it. This would be a site of greatness. This throne room had been used for important rituals before, he knew, but this one...it would be the greatest of all.

He stared through the empty gate, through the wall behind it, to a place only he could see.

A city burning, inhabited only by the dead.


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inigo and Morgan continue towards Annapolis, making a brief detour along the way. A gratuitous sex scene is narrowly averted. Inigo gets some advice from his father. Anna introduces herselves.

Chapter 7  
Time - Late afternoon, 6 days after the Harvest Festival  
Place - Endless Sands, Plegia

Inigo looked out to the horizon, and at the hazy, dust-filled desert that filled the distance between.

He looked down at the map in his hands.

He looked back up, twisting his neck to the right, and then to the left. Endless desert, and...wait! Was that..!? Yep. Endless desert.

He looked down at the map in his hands, and flipped it over, then back again.

“Shit,” he finally said.

“Are you okay, son?” his father asked from his spot next to him on the front of the carriage.

“Gods!” Inigo shouted, clutching his chest. “Don’t DO that!”

Kellam smiled awkwardly. “Sorry. I’m just concerned, that’s all. I know it can’t be easy to find your bearings in this desert...last time I came through here, there was an entire army with us to scout the way.”

“Yes, well…” Inigo frowned. An entire army sounded nice right about now. “Perhaps we should just stop at the next outpost we come across, anyway. I know the last time we were almost killed by Risen, but what are the odds of that happening twice? Ha ha.”

Kellam did not speculate.

“Er…” Inigo continued. “How’s Morgan doing?”

“She was napping when I was back there, but that was a few hours ago,” Kellam answered.

Inigo tried not to react to the fact that his father had apparently been up here with him for several hours. It was a strange habit the man had; even Prince Gaius, who had once been a highly accomplished thief, had said that Kellam’s ability to sneak around unnoticed was one that many rogues would kill for. And, even more bizarrely, Kellam apparently had no idea how or why he was so inadvertently stealthy.

All Inigo knew was that a young man sometimes wanted his privacy without worrying about his father being in the same room, hiding in plain sight…

“Y’know, I was meaning to say,” Kellam said, and Inigo jumped slightly. Good Gods, he had forgotten his father was there because he was too busy thinking about how easy it was to forget when his father was there.

“Yes?” Inigo quickly responded.

“You were very brave back in Midtown, when those Risen attacked us,” Kellam said. “That leader of theirs was focused on Morgan, but you drew its ire so it would attack you instead.”

“Oh,” Inigo said, blushing. “I, uhm…”

“It’s how I’ve always preferred to fight,” Kellam went on. “Some people carry their own shield into battle, but for those who don’t, there’s me. Each blow that hits me is one less to hurt anyone else.”

“Yeah…” Inigo said, nodding. “I guess I never really thought of it that way. Getting hurt doesn’t really scare me, but losing someone that I lo...uhm, that I’m close to scares the hell out of me.”

Kellam’s face was normally blank and utterly unreadable, but he seemed to give him a knowing look. “That’s sort of how I met your mother, actually,” he said. “She was never the strongest member of our army, but her role was vital. So whenever she had to get to the front lines for any reason, I always made sure to be there, to stop anyone from hurting her. At first she didn’t notice, but...after a while she started to see me, more than anyone else could.”

Inigo smiled. “Gosh, that’s...actually really sweet, dad.”

Kellam shrugged. “Your mother certainly thinks so. But in truth I didn’t even do it to be nice, or because she was pretty. I did it because it’s who I am. It would never occur to me to do anything else. And I think you’re the same way, Inigo.”

Inigo could still feel himself blushing from all this unexpected praise. “I’m nowhere near as strong as you, though--”

“Oh, it’s not about strength. It’s just about dedication. Always be there to protect those who need it. To protect those you love.”

Inigo let out a loud cough at this. “Yes, well, I, ah, have a lot of love to give! There are so many beautiful women out there in the world, after all, aheheheh…”

“Say, uhm, Inigo,” Kellam continued, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. Now he appeared to be blushing as well. “The version of me from the future, er, the one that raised you. Did he ever, ah...properly sit you down and explain, y’know, the birds and the bees…?”

“Good Gods, father!” Inigo shouted, when there was a loud yawn behind him. Morgan appeared to have woken up, and was pushing her way to the front of the cart, where she squeezed in between father and son.

“Morning,” she mumbled, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her face was grimy and her hair was an absolute mess. Still, her timely interruption made her the most beautiful image Inigo had ever seen.

“It’s late afternoon,” Kellam pointed out.

“Morgan! Impeccable timing,” Inigo yelled, wiping sweat from his brow. “We were just talking about...very manly things. Like explosions, and...how much we like, uh...bacon.”

“Oh...kay…” Morgan said slowly, giving him an odd look. “So, uh, what’s the story? How much longer until we get to Annapolis?”

“It’s a funny story, that,” Inigo began.

“We’re lost,” Kellam interjected.

“That wasn’t very funny at all,” Morgan said.

“It’s all in the delivery, my father doesn’t have any comedic timing.” Inigo sighed. “It’s okay, though, we’re just going to stop at the next outpost we come across and get our bearings. We’ll be back on track in no time!”

As it happened, it was later that evening as the last rays of the sun were disappearing and the chill desert air was beginning to descend that they stumbled across a small town. Right off the bat, this one appeared to be a good deal more lively than Midtown had been.

As they approached the outskirts of town, they could already hear a steady hum of voices from inside one of the few buildings around.

“Perhaps there’s a...town hall meeting going on?” Kellam mused. “Maybe a church sermon?”

The double doors at the front of the noisy building swung open, and a body came flying out. For the brief moment that the doors were open, the voices could be heard more clearly; shouting, swearing, and off-key, drunken singing.

“Ooh, it’s a pub,” Inigo said, his interest piqued.

“That body isn’t moving,” Morgan pointed out.

“This place looks...dangerous,” Kellam said, as he brought the cart to a halt and began hitching the horses. “Maybe we should keep moving, I’m sure there’ll be another outpost along the way…”

Inigo hopped off the cart and made a few strides toward the pub, before turning around and fixing the other two with an indignant look. Both Kellam and Morgan appeared much more hesitant to go any further.

“Oh come on, you...you...couple of women,” Inigo said, ignoring the glare from Morgan and the confused look from Kellam. “Sure, this may be a bit of a rough neighborhood--” he paused as a dagger flew out from the swinging doors, embedding itself in the ground by his feet, “but pubs like this are everywhere. You just have to know how to speak the language of the locals.” He straightened his clothes and struck Morgan with a smoldering stare, flashing a smile so bright it could out-sparkle the sun.

“I’m going to punch you in the face,” she responded.

“Okay, you’re an outlier,” Inigo conceded, losing his composure for only a moment before resuming his confident pose. “But nine times out of ten, people will tell me anything I want to hear once I turn on the ol’ charm.” He turned back around and resumed walking towards the pub, a distinctive and entirely unnatural swagger in his step. “So you two just stay here and watch a master at work.”

He pushed open the swinging doors to the pub, and stepped inside. The noise dimmed considerably, as many pairs of eyes turned to study this newcomer.

“What ho, comrades!” Inigo announced cheerfully, “I am but a humble travelling merchant looking for a good time, just like any of you! Unfortunately, my associates and I have somewhat lost our bearings; perchance, might one of you fine citizens be able to point us in the proper direction? I would have naught but the utmost gratitude--”

 

“--Eugggh. Wha’ happen’d?”

He was on the ground outside, staring up at the night sky, a good deal of pain throbbing somewhere behind his eyes.

“You made it about two sentences before someone broke a chair over your head,” Morgan answered, as she dabbed his forehead with a damp cloth.

“I thought it was going well, ow,” Inigo mumbled, wincing as he sat upright. Morgan gave him a gentle smile. Maybe it was the concussion, but he found himself smiling back.

“What was that all about, anyway? Were you hoping there were some pretty girls in there you could impress?” Morgan asked, just a hint of snark in her voice.

“No!” Inigo responded, loudly enough that he made his own head hurt. “Ow...ah, what I mean to say is...I know that places like this can be a bit rough towards, well...ladies, such as yourself.”

“Ladies such as myself are perfectly capable of looking after ourselves,” Morgan responded, but she still appeared to be regarding him fondly. “But...I get it. It was sweet, if a bit stupid and pointless.”

“Th-thanks,” Inigo mumbled. Suddenly overcome with a migraine, he slouched forward, into her arms.

“Careful!” Morgan said, helping him stay upright. “Stay with me, Inigo, you’re not supposed to sleep after taking a nasty blow to the head like that.”

“I’m fine, I’m okay,” Inigo responded. He looked up into her eyes, which were now very close to his. He could feel her warm breath against his face. Her arms were still wrapped around him.

And now her face was moving ever closer to his…

“W-wait,” he whispered, and she pulled back slightly. “My dad! He...he’s not right next to us or something, is he?”

“...That is an incredibly strange thing to ask, but I’ll forgive it on account of your head injury,” Morgan responded. “He went into the pub after you were thrown out. We’re alone.”

Inigo was snapped out of his reverie. “He did? Why? What could he possibly hope to accomplish?”

Morgan gave him a strange look. “Well, since you couldn’t get any information on where to go from here, he figured he’d try. I think he said he was just going to sit quietly and listen in on people. It’s worth a shot, right?”

“Ugh, I can’t stand that,” Inigo grumbled. “It’s so...overbearing! Why’s he always have to be there, quietly watching? We could have handled this ourselves?”

“Right, because that went so well for you,” Morgan chided. She pulled a little bit further back. “Just so we’re clear, are you actually going to stop me from kissing you so that you can rant about your dad?”

Inigo’s face turned a bright red, and he mumbled something unintelligible. Finally, he managed to say, “I’m sorry. He’s just always tried so hard to protect me and it gets annoying sometimes. Wouldn’t it have been fun if it were just the two of us, on a grand adventure? But instead now we have to deal with him and his bizarre stealth act.”

Morgan unwrapped herself from him and pushed away, awkwardly straightening her clothes. “Has it ever occurred to you, Inigo, that some of us maybe wish we had fathers around?”

Inigo’s heart sank. “No, that...I mean, that’s not what…”

“So your dad is always there for you. Boo hoo, how terrible. I don’t even know if my parents are alive or dead, but given that I haven’t seen them in four years, if they are alive I think it’s safe to say they don’t care about me anymore.”

Inigo tried to stand up, but was overcome with a wave of dizziness, forcing him back to the ground. “Morgan, that’s not...I don’t…”

“Just forget it, Inigo. I hope your head feels better.”

Through blurry eyes he watched her go back to the cart, step inside, and close the curtain behind her. Unable to stay upright under his own strength any longer, Inigo slumped backwards, laying helplessly on the ground, staring up at the stars.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid idiot,” he grumbled to himself.

“Who is?” came Kellam’s voice from nearby. Inigo groaned.

“Please, please tell me you weren’t here this whole time.”

“I just left the pub. I know where to go from here,” Kellam answered. “Why are you laying on the ground?”

“Because I’ve acknowledged my place as a pathetic, lowly worm,” Inigo mumbled.

“Oh. Well, why don’t we head back to the cart. Do you need a hand?”

Without waiting for him to object, Kellam reached down and scooped up Inigo. For someone so infamously easy to miss, his father was tall and strong enough to make carrying him around seem effortless.

“Is Morgan in the cart?” Kellam asked as they approached it.

“Mmhmm,” Inigo responded, without enthusiasm.

“Well, I’ll just slide you in back, and--”

“Wait,” Inigo hastily said. “I’d rather sit up front with you. If that’s okay, uh. Dad.”

Kellam smiled down at him. “Of course it’s okay. C’mon.”

He propped Inigo up at the front of the carriage, then climbed into the driver’s seat beside him. “We’ll be at Annapolis in no time. Then we’ll be back in Ylisse and reunited with our friends. I have a really good feeling about this adventure!”

“Yeah,” Inigo said, letting out a resignated sigh. “Great.”

 

It was another day of long, boring travel through dusty, boring desert. Inigo dozed off a few times, which he was pretty sure you weren’t supposed to do with a concussion, but he woke up each time, so that was nice.

Eventually Morgan made her way out from the back of the cart, and came up front to sit on the other side of Kellam. Inigo craned forward to look at her, around the bulk of his father’s golden armour, but her head was turned steadfastly towards the opposite horizon. She did not appear to have anything to say.

Inigo slouched back. He had blown this one royally. He had been with women before, sure, but it had all been kind of vapid, shallow, a way to pass the time. With Morgan it was...different. They had always just been friends, and he had never pushed himself on her too hard, but...lately there was something about that connection that felt real. Like he was wanted. Like she would actually want him to stay, once the fun part was over.

But, that was all over now.

Through the bright haze of the afternoon sun, a compound was coming into visibility ahead. As they drew closer, it became increasingly apparent that there was a good deal of bustle going on. The buildings looked more like elaborate mazes of tents, a village that had cropped up overnight and could fold up and move at a moment's notice.

There was also a large fence around it. A gate, located straight ahead of them, was flanked by two guards with long spears. Apparently this place meant business.

And as they drew closer still, they could make out the features of the guards: long red hair, sultry eyes, busty physiques. Oh, yes. This place meant BUSINESS.

“Halt!” one of the guards shouted, as both lowered their spears across the gate to block their approach. Inigo, Kellam and Morgan exchanged nervous glances with one another. Had this whole trip been for naught?

“No one gets in without a reference,” the other guard said. “Who sent you?”

There was a moment of long, drawn-out silence.

Morgan was the one to break it. “Uhm. Anna?” she said.

The guards looked across at each other.

“Right then,” one said, as they raised their spears. “Enjoy your stay.”

Kellam slowly urged the horses forward into the compound. Inside was...well...Anna.

Most of the buildings were merchant stalls, or at least had merchant stalls affixed to the fronts. There were goods of all kinds on display, from the mundane to the extravagant. Goods were being bartered, gold was changing hands, one person was exchanging a chicken for a barrel of old clothes…

...and everyone was Anna. Long red hair, sultry eyes, busty physiques. An endless sea of Anna.

“This is creeping me out,” Inigo said softly.

“Don’t be rude,” Kellam chided. “I’ve met, uhm, Anna before, and she was perfectly nice.”

“No, I get that, one Anna would be fine,” Inigo answered, “I mean, really, fiiiiine,” he added, unable to stop himself as his eyes followed one who was walking by in an exotic belly-dancing outfit. “But this? A hundred Anna’s? How is that even possible? There’s no way you can tell me they’re siblings, there isn’t a womb in the world that could manage that.”

“I suppose I’ve never really thought about it,” Kellam conceded. “I had plenty of brothers, but...I guess this is all a bit excessive…”

“We can figure out the family tree later,” Morgan cut in. “We’re here for business, remember? We need to find out who’s in charge.”

Kellam nodded. They hitched the cart in a lot with a few others, and made their way into the heart of the bizarre bazaar.

Inigo cracked his knuckles. Beautiful redheads as far as the eye could see. This had to be a reward for all the pain and suffering he’d put up with lately, right? He glanced over at Morgan, who was thoroughly ignoring him. Aggressively ignoring him, even.

Well, what, he was supposed to stay celibate forever because they had almost kissed? He didn’t owe her anything, and besides, she was clearly done with him anyway. Time to give up and move on.

He was good at that.

“Excuse me,” Morgan said, approaching a tent where Anna was haggling with Anna over the price of a funky, impractical looking wine goblet.

“Yes?” they both said, turning to her.

“I’m...uh, sorry,” Morgan stuttered, momentarily taken aback, “but I’m looking for the person in charge here.”

“Of the whole settlement?” the shopkeeper asked. “That’d be Anna.”

They went back to haggling, the customer adamant that the goblet was made out of clay and not Grima’s scales as the label claimed.

“Er, excuse me,” Morgan said again. “Which Anna would that be, exactly?”

Both Anna’s turned back to her, looking rather surprised that she was still here.

“Sorry, you don’t look familiar. Have we met?” the shopkeeper Anna asked.

“I’m, uh...I’m Morgan. Not an Anna,” Morgan answered, feeling rather surreal at having to explain that.

“Hmmm...you’d look good with red hair, though,” the customer Anna said, reaching out and running a hand through Morgan’s messy white hair. “And we could get you a new outfit, show off your feminine wiles a bit more. You do have feminine wiles, right?”

Morgan blushed.

“Stop teasing her, Anna,” chided Anna. “If you’re looking for Anna - sorry, the head Anna - we can take you to her.”

“Great, thanks,” Morgan said. “Guys, they’re going to--”

She looked around. Inigo was gone. Well, fine. She didn’t need his help anyway. She could handle this on her own. In fact, he’d probably slow her down by being a big, stupid idiot.

“Guess I’m on my own,” she said, and followed after the two Anna’s.

Kellam sighed and followed along, too.

At the far end of Annapolis, a considerably more primal building stood. Perhaps it was the only piece of original Plegian architecture here, around which the Anna’s had built their merchant city.

Something about it made Morgan shudder.

“Anna is in here,” Anna said, opening the door and standing aside so Morgan could pass through. She went to shut it, though oddly it pushed back open again as if someone else also wanted to come in.

Anna shrugged. You didn’t question the weird shit around here.

Inside, the building was one large, open room. It looked a bit like the throne room back in the castle at Ylisstol - throne and all. However, instead of an elegant hall for posh meetings and formal balls, the area in front of this throne was roped off in a large circle. Morgan’s guides made sure to walk around the outskirts of the circle rather than pass directly through it.

“Anna! We’ve got someone here who wanted to talk to you,” Anna announced.

There were several Anna’s in the room, but most of them did not look over from what they were doing, as if they somehow innately knew they weren’t the Anna being addressed.

The one that did look over was the one sitting on the throne. She had one leg over the side, and a large sack spilling over with gold coins as a pillow.

“Hey, I recognize you,” said the Anna In Charge. “You’re the kid of that tactician from Ylisse, right? What was his name, Bluejay?”

“Robin!” Morgan said, gasping. “You knew my father?”

“‘Course, I fought with him and his army for a bit,” Anna said, leaping off the throne and landing before Morgan with equal parts grace and ferocity. “Good times. Made some of my best sales to those rubes. I mean, uh, respected comrades-in-arms.”

“That’s great!” Morgan responded, giddy with optimism. “Ylisse needs your help again! The new king of Plegia attacked us, and--”

Anna held up a finger and gently pressed it against Morgan’s lips.

“Shh, shh, shh. I’m gonna stop you right there.” She turned away and sauntered back to her throne, her hips instinctively moving in such a hypnotic fashion that even Morgan was momentarily entranced. When she had sat back down on her coin pillow, sending a few clattering to the floor, she continued. “I joined the army last time as a freelancer. An Anna alone. That’s how we do things: individually, when we feel like it, for our own reasons. If you’re here for some kind of...Anna army, well, that ain’t how we roll.”

Morgan’s optimism began to deflate, but...no! She wasn’t giving up that easily.

“This threat is Plegian!” Morgan said. “And it looks like you’ve got your base set up here, in Plegia! Do you really think a mad king with an army of Risen is just going to let you have a little free space? Especially with all this gold and treasure here?”

Anna shrugged. “He’s welcome to try to come and get it.”

Morgan forged ahead. “And how many of you will die in that attack? How many of your sist-frie-uh, Anna’s will perish because you just sat around waiting for him to consolidate his strength and come for you?”

Anna flicked a coin up in the air, watched it spin, and caught it. She did this again a few times, her eyes not leaving Morgan.

“You’re really trying to sell me on this, aren’t you?” she finally said.

“And I’m not leaving here until I make the sale,” Morgan replied.

Anna stood up, and snapped her fingers. The other Anna’s in the room moved in to huddle around her, and a hum of intense whispering filled the room. Morgan strained to hear, but couldn’t hear anything other than the occasional “profit,” “moxy,” or “cute.”

Finally the huddle broke, and all the Anna’s turned as one to face Morgan.

“There is precedence,” she said, slowly, watching Morgan’s face closely to gauge for a reaction. Morgan kept her emotions in check, and nodded in understanding.

“If an Anna is in danger, we’ll do what we can to help them,” a different Anna explained.

“And being an Anna isn’t just about your DNA, though that helps,” the leader said, running her hand through her hair and striking a sultry pose. “It’s about attitude.”

“Style!” said another.

“It’s a way of life,” chimed in a third.

“So...I can become an Anna? And then you’ll help?” Morgan ventured, cautiously optimistic once more.

“It’s not an easy process!” Anna warned, wagging her finger. “You’ll have to pass a series of grueling tests to ensure you’re made of the right stuff. You’ll be judged by the Council of Anna, of which I am the leader. Anna.”

The six other women lined up, three on each side.

“This is Anna.”

“Hi!”

“Anna.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Anna.”

“Howdy, pardner!”

“Anna.”

“Yarrr, ahoy matey.”

“Anna.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

“And…”

Anna paused, looking at the last one. All the Anna’s appeared more or less identical, with a few quirks here and there such as a cowboy hat or eye patch, but the one on the end had dark purple hair instead of the usual bright red.

“Veronica,” she said.

“It’s a phase she’s going through,” the lead Anna insisted.

“It is not! THIS IS WHO I AM!” Veronica screamed.

Anna rolled her eyes.

“So...what do I have to do, O Righteous Council of Anna’s and One Veronica?” Morgan asked.

“Once the sun has set, meet us outside the gates of the camp,” Anna said. “The trials will begin. Succeed, and you shall be one of us.” She offered a wide, infectious grin, and Morgan smiled back.

As the Anna’s filed past her, the leader stopped and put an arm around Morgan.

“Oh, you may want to get your affairs in order first,” she said. “If you fail, you die. Well, seeya tonight!”

She sauntered off.

Morgan watched the Anna’s go, her heart sinking. Fail...and die?

She stomped her foot, and stuck her chin up. She was smart, savvy, and capable. She could handle anything a bunch of sexy merchant clones could throw at her. It was going to be fine.

And yet, despite herself, a small part of her said: I wish Inigo were with me…


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerome goes for a swim in the sewers. Gaius gets a makeover. The rebellion grows, and plots. Things go downhill quickly.

Chapter 8  
Time - Afternoon, 7 days after the Harvest Festival  
Place - Market District, Ylisstol

The city is burning and my friends are dead…

As the occupation of Ylisstol lurched towards it’s second week, Mort had decided that it was time for business as usual to resume. No more were people allowed to just cower in their homes; no, it was time to go back to work and get to stimulating that economy.

As Gerome walked through the crowded market district, it felt as dead and empty as ever.

There was very little chatter. With armed Risen patrols every few dozen feet, no one was willing to get caught slacking off or goofing around. Who knew what would happen? They may very well be gutted on the spot.

But while people nervously avoided eye contact with the Risen, and with each other, many people shot hateful glares towards Gerome. They moved out of the way when he went past. One shopkeeper even pretended not to hear him when Gerome asked to see the vegetables he was selling.

They had seen him move in and out of the castle for several days now. The Risen didn’t accost him. Clearly, he was one of “them.” An occupier. A traitor. The enemy.

There was a crash nearby, as a man was shoved into his stall, sending slabs of meat clattering to the ground.

“This meat is spoiled,” grumbled a Risen guard, looming over him.

“Y-you burned my farm down, and my animals ran!” the man whimpered. “I-I-I can’t sell goods I don’t have!”

The Risen drew it’s axe. “Then what good are you?”

The farmer’s knees buckled under him, and he collapsed backwards in terror, arms thrown up to protect his face. “Please, please, don’t…”

The axe didn’t come down.

When the farmer lowered his arms to see why he wasn’t dead, a man was standing over him, facing down the Risen.

“Step aside, boy,” the Risen growled.

“Mort won’t appreciate it if you cut down his errand boy,” Gerome replied, keeping his voice cool and level. He hated himself for even acknowledging such a title...but apparently it worked. The Risen sheathed it’s axe.

It craned its neck and spat on the farmer behind Gerome, then turned and walked off.

“Are you alright?” Gerome asked, bending down to give the poor man a hand.

The man looked at it suspiciously a moment before finally accepting. Gerome pulled the farmer to his feet. He looked like a poor, dumb country boy, with no idea what to do now that his livestock was gone.

It sure reminded him of someone…

“Thanks,” the man mumbled, clearly still nervous. “I’m sorry, uh, I thought you were...y’know, one of them…”

Gerome lowered his voice. “They think I am. But I want them gone just as much as anyone else.”

The man was silent for a moment, then nodded. “You should--” he began, but stopped as another Risen patrol sauntered past. Once they appeared to be out of earshot, he lowered his voice even further, to just above a whisper, and said, “you should head to Nutmeg Inn when the sun goes down. Revolution is coming!”

He slipped away into the crowd before Gerome could respond.

Revolution was coming...that was promising. It would seem Gaius, Brady, and Roy had made some progress in spreading the word. So long as Mort didn’t catch on, then perhaps this nightmare would be over soon…

Gerome looked up at the sky. It was still early afternoon, so he had a few hours before he’d be expected back at the castle for evening roll call. And in the meantime, he had to look busy, really convince Mort he was hunting out insurgents. Well, perhaps it he could kill two birds with one stone.

Time to see what’s going on at Nutmeg Inn.

He made his way out of the market district, keeping his shoulders hunched in an attempt not to stand out too much from the crowd. Much like his previous nightly escapades, he had no intention of letting the Risen sniff around after him. Unfortunately, it was going to be harder to keep out of sight in the broad daylight…

Hardly any Ylisseans were hanging around outside the market district. No children playing in the streets, no families enjoying the nice autumn weather, no pets being walked. As such there were considerably fewer Risen patrols out here, though their line of sight would be much better. Stupid lack of shadows to cling to.

He decided to head back towards the palace - or at least be seen going in that direction. A few Risen patrols eyed him warily. If they did have some sort of hive mind, perhaps they had all taken offense to his standing up to one.

They did not attempt to stop him or follow him, however, so in truth he couldn’t care less about their ire. As soon as he was out of sight of any patrols, he ducked into an alley.

“Never spent so much time in alleyways in my life,” he muttered to himself. Now, what was the best way to navigate around Ylisstol from here without being seen…

He remembered something Gaius had mentioned, about old tunnels all throughout the city. The prince had allegedly used them back when he was an accomplished burglar, a time that he swore he regretted despite regularly reminiscing fondly over.

Gerome kept his eyes towards the ground and scanned around. He needed a manhole, a grating, anything…

And...there! Back towards the way he had just come from, a pale, circular lid down to the sewers.

Two Risen stepped on it as they made their patrol down the street. Gerome swiftly ducked his head back out of sight. A patrol in broad daylight. This was going to be tricky.

He smirked. Challenges like this were what he lived for.

He hunched down in the alley, watched, and waited.

He counted. The patrol moved north, step by step, until it was out of sight. Then, two minutes and ten seconds later, came back into view moving south.

Three times in a row he watched and counted. Two minutes and ten seconds each time. Okay. He could do this.

The fourth time the patrol disappeared out of sight, he bolted from his hiding spot, darting straight towards the manhole cover, keeping count under his breath. Only thirty-six seconds to get there; easy…

He bent over and grabbed the cover, straining with all his might as he dragged it to the side. It was much heavier than he had expected, and made a loud clatter as it scraped across the pavement. Given how silent the rest of the city was, he could only imagine how loudly this sudden cacophony must have sounded to anyone in the area…

As soon as the opening was wide enough for him to fit through, he gripped the old ladder along the side and swung his body down. He reached up to grab the cover to drag back over to him, but heard the clatter of footsteps running towards him. He could just see Risen approaching as he ducked his head out of sight, kicked his feet back, and slid down the ladder all the way into the tunnel below.

It was further down than he had expected. When his feet hit the ground, the shock shot through his body. He also almost slipped; the ground here seemed coated with some sort of thick slime. And while it was too dark to see anything effectively, the smell in the air lent heavy credence to the idea that this was a sewage tunnel.

Looking up, he could see the heads of several Risen looking down at him, framed by a halo of sunlight. Hopefully the thick darkness down here kept his features hidden; the whole point of this escapade was to keep the Risen from knowing where he was! So long as they thought he was just a random civilian making a break for it, he could get out of this…

He didn’t wait any longer. He took off down the tunnel, the sounds of the Risen clattering down after him echoing around him.

This place was a goddamn maze, and the lack of any light, natural or otherwise, certainly didn’t help his escape plan. He moved as fast as he could without losing his footing on the slippery stones, one hand brushing a wall at all times to help give him some sense of balance and direction.

The footsteps, guttural voices, and rattling of weaponry continued following close behind. Much too close for comfort. There had to be some way to lose them--

He walked face first into a metal grating. It looked as if he had wandered down a tunnel with a dead end; the water was able to flow through the grating, but there was no way he would ever be able to fit through.

An idea struck him. He didn’t like it.

A moment later the Risen hit the grating. They both looked around, confused.

“Where did he go?” one grumbled. The other mumbled a curse.

And behind them, like an ancient leviathan, Gerome rose, water and filth cascading off of him. He lunged forward and snapped the neck of the Risen closest to him with one swift twist. He grabbed the axe from it’s hand as it fell, and brought it up as the second one charged at him. They collided and stumbled into the sewage, rolling and splashing until Gerome was able to drive the blade into it’s neck.

He stood back up, feeling weary and disgusting. This had all been to protect his identity, and by extension to protect anyone Mort would kill to punish him. It had been worth it.

And yet, he could see Inigo laughing at him, and saying with a grin, “Gee, Gerome, you sure look like shit!”

He groaned, and lurched forward.

 

A few hours passed, enough for the sun to set and darkness to begin to fall over Ylisstol. The roll call was over, and people had been encouraged to quietly return to their homes.

An old, rusted service door opened a street over from Nutmeg Inn and a soggy, foul-smelling man carefully slipped out.

Slowly he made his way towards the door of the inn. From outside, the place looked abandoned. The paint was old and faded, the windows were dark and grimy, and no sound could be heard emanating from within. Regardless, Gerome made sure the coast was clear, then went up to the front door and carefully knocked.

Nothing happened.

He waited a moment, grew agitated, and knocked more aggressively. If that merchant had lied, or given him the wrong information…

The door opened a crack.

“Password?” asked a voice.

“I recognize your voice, Gaius, and I swear by all the Gods, if you don’t let me in, my vengeance will be swift and merciless.”

“Password was ‘caramel,’ but close enough.”

The door opened a bit further. The room beyond seemed dark and empty, which was obviously impossible given Gaius had just been standing there. Gerome slipped in and shut the door behind him.

A hand grabbed him, as if to steer him along through the darkness, but quickly let go.

“Holy hell, what is that?”

“You don’t want to know. I don’t suppose there’s anywhere I can wash off or grab a change of clothes?”

He heard Gaius sigh. “I mean, it is an inn. Fine, go clean up, we’ll have the spooky clandestine revolutionary underground meeting when you’re done.”

It was another hour or so into the night when Gerome had finished toweling himself off and changing into some slightly-too-small spare clothing the innkeeper had laying around. The smell was still noticeable but it was at least muted. He made his way downstairs, moving carefully in the darkness, until a hand grabbed him to steer him along once more.

“Are we good now? Do you need to use the bathroom? Maybe grab dinner?” Gaius asked sarcastically.

“I’m fine. Where is everyone?”

He was led to a wall behind the bar in the main common room of the inn. Gaius deftly moved of a few old, decorative bottles around, then pushed on a blank panel. To Gerome’s mild surprise, the wall opened up, revealing another room behind it, this one more well lit and filled with a few dozen people.

As they stepped into the light, Gerome looked at Gaius and let out an involuntary gasp. “What the hell?”

Gaius looked around, confused. “What? What is it?”

“Your head! It’s...covered in some kind of...mud?”

Gaius laughed. “Oh! It’s hair dye. My red mop is rather distinctive, so Lissa figured if she poured a few boxes of black dye into it, I’d be harder to notice.”

Gerome gave an awkward cough. “It was a nice thought, but...I think ‘a few boxes’ may have been too much. It looks like it’s trying to eat your entire head.”

Gaius waved this off. “Whatever. Owain keeps saying that we should ‘embrace our inner darkness,’ given the shadowy nature of our mission. ...Weird kid. Still don’t know where the hell he got it from.”

Gerome allowed himself a slight smile. He looked over the room. It seemed to be operating like a normal tavern; people will drinking, chatting, huddled in groups. It was quiet and low-key, sure, but there was a tinge of excitement in the air.

“I take it this is the army you’ve amassed so far..?” he asked.

“Hah! Not even. This is the tip of the iceberg,” Gaius said, rather smugly. “Brady is handing out weapons in a warehouse. Roy is specifically organizing a team to try and break into the dungeons to free Severa and Libra. We’re getting ready, Gerome. A few more days, and this revolution is going to hit hard and fast.”

Gerome nodded. He felt the same sensation in his gut that he did before any major battle. Some fear, not the sort to make him run, but the sort to hone his nerves and keep him cautious, mixed with resolute determination and even a bit of excitement. This had to work. The heart and soul of the city depended on it.

“Gaius,” he said, his tone serious enough to grab the Prince’s attention. “When the time comes, and we attack...do whatever you must to keep everyone safe, obviously, but if at all possible...will you save Mort?”

“SAVE Mort?” Gaius asked, incredulous.

“For me,” Gerome continued. “Save him for me to kill.”

Gaius was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you,” Gerome said. He didn’t know if it would help, if it would appease some of the rage inside him, give him something to feel aside from hate. But it was certainly worth a shot.

“Hey, I know you,” came another voice, as someone from the crowd stumbled forward and squinted at Gerome. “You’re that guy working for Mort! What’re you…!”

“Calm down! Keep your voice down!” Gaius snapped. “He’s with us. Okay? I vouch for him.”

“You have my word, friend,” Gerome said, maintaining firm eye contact. The man appeared to have been drinking a bit, and eyed Gerome distrustfully, though he seemed to have a hard time standing his ground when Gerome stared back.

“...Fine,” the man mumbled. “But you better be damn careful, kid. ‘M watchin’ you…”

“Right…” Gerome said, as the man walked off.

“Ignore him,” Gaius said. “You’re in a tough spot, but you’re doing great. Just another day or two, that’s all. Just hold out for another day or two.”

Gerome nodded. “I should get back. I’ll tell him I’ve got a lead on your hideout, just...that I need another day to get in. I’ll make him think I’m close to keep him off my back while you finish preparations.”

“Great,” Gaius said. “Thanks, Gerome, for everything you’re putting up with. We won’t let you down. I’ll make sure the coast is clear and help escort you out.”

“I’ve gotten pretty adept at dodging the Risen patrols once night has fallen,” Gerome said. “I’ll be able to get back to the castle without anyone knowing where I was today.”

They walked back through the hidden door, into the darkened main room of the inn. Before they reached the exit, Gaius stopped him one last time.

“Gerome, thanks for checking in, but...you probably shouldn’t come back here,” he said. “It’s too risky. We’ve got this handled. You should keep your head down and stay safe.”

“I’m in this just as deep as any of you!” Gerome shot back. “Probably moreso! You can’t stop me from helping this rebellion!”

“No, I can’t,” Gaius conceded. “But I can ask you, as a friend, to please not let your emotions cloud your judgment. I couldn’t ever face your mom if I let you waltz up to Mort and get yourself executed.”

“I’ve been careful, and will continue to be careful,” Gerome said, firmly. “Either way...I guess I’ll be seeing you when the time comes. Take care, Gaius. Give my regards to Lissa.”

“Aye,” Gaius said, quietly, as he closed the door behind Gerome.

And that was it. It was as if the meeting had never happened; Gerome was alone, in the still, silent night, in front of a clearly abandoned inn.

 

He didn’t let himself get seen by the Risen patrols until he was close enough to the castle that he could have potentially come from any direction. He welcomed the mistrusting looks of the Plegians, and hungry stares of the Risen, as he made his way up the castle steps.

He had to make his way through the throne room to get to the simple storage room where he had been sleeping, not quite a prison cell, but not luxury accommodations either.

As he passed through, head down and moving as quickly as he could without arousing suspicion, something made him slow to a halt. He felt queasy. Something was very wrong.

“Welcome back, Brady!”

Mort was sitting on his throne. Joab stood by his side, but other than that, there was nobody in the vast chamber. No guards, no Risen, nobody.

And behind Mort, his bizarre architectural creation continued to come to life. A circular gate had been constructed, and Mort’s men had procured strange power sources to connect all around the base. Gerome still had no idea what the hell this thing was supposed to symbolize.

“...Sir,” Gerome responded, curtly.

“Come on over here, my friend! Let’s have a good chat.” Mort waved an arm, beckoning Gerome forward. He grimaced inwardly, but had no choice but to obey.

As he approached the throne, Mort straightened up and leaned forward, studying Gerome curiously. “Tell me about your progress, Brady. You have made some progress, yes?”

Gerome glanced over towards Joab, who was snickering as obnoxiously as ever, then looked back to Mort. “I’m...close. I just need another day to work my sources…”

“So you have not, as of yet, found where Prince Gaius and his rebels are hiding?” Mort asked, rather forcefully. “I’ve had dead Risen patrols popping up, Brady. Our armory was broken into and weapons were stolen. I can’t have this, Brady. I need results.”

“You’ll have them!” Gerome said, rather loudly, his voice cracking. “If you’ll let me get some sleep, I’ll be back at it first thing in the morning--”

“One moment, Brady,” Mort said, holding up a hand. “You mean to tell me that you did NOT go to Nutmeg Inn tonight?”

Gerome’s blood ran cold. He swallowed, and tried to keep his voice flat. “Nutmeg Inn..? I, ah, had heard that might be one of their hideouts, but...I can’t yet verify…”

Mort sighed, and leaned back in his throne. He clapped his hands, and a door opened somewhere behind Gerome. He turned to see two guards moving forward, escorting the farmer that Gerome had rescued in the market district that morning.

“What was it you said Brady here told you this morning, friend?” Mort asked.

The farmer looked at Gerome, his eyes filled with fear and sorrow. He gulped, and answered, “he said he wanted to take you down, m’lord. I...I told him about Nutmeg Inn, then hid nearby and watched the entrance. Sure enough, he went in about an hour ago, after the sun had set. I ran right here, soon as I saw it.” He turned to Gerome, and began babbling so quickly that he was almost incoherent. “I’m real sorry, man, this isn’t personal, but my livelihood is at stake. I can’t survive without a farm or livestock, and the only one who can help me is King Mort!”

“You did well! You were very smart, to do what you did,” Mort said, smiling genially. “I’m a firm believer in both the carrot and the stick. Obedience is to be rewarded. Give this man a nice room, and in the morning, let him have his pick of the farmland that hasn’t been razed,” he said to his guards. They nodded and escorted the snitch away, who was bobbing and babbling a stream of heartfelt thanks to his benevolent lord.

Mort stood, and stepped up to Gerome, who was frozen on the spot.

“And now,” he said, “the stick. Disobedience must be punished. Wulf! Bring them out!”

Gerome hadn’t thought his stomach could sink any further. He turned, and saw the huge Plegian shoving someone in front of him. Her mouth was covered with a gag, and her arms were bound tightly behind her back. She stumbled as Wulf gave her another sharp shove, but quickly recovered, standing up straight with dignity and grace once more.

“Mother!” Gerome shouted, before he could stop himself.

“Mother?” Mort said, amused. “She’s so young and pretty. Must have aged wonderfully.” He stepped forward and reached out a hand to touch her long, red mane of hair. She narrowed her eyes and growled something muffled and unintelligible.

“So, if this is mommy,” Mort said, ignoring her, “that would make him...a baby brother? I can see the resemblance!”

Wulf had one huge hand wrapped around the skinny arm of little Gerome. He pulled, hard, lifting the boy off his feet. Wulf dangled him in the air in front of Gerome.

“You remember what I told you,” Mort said. “Unlike you, I’m not dishonest. I keep my word.”

“No!” Gerome screamed, tears welling in his face. “No, please, no, kill me instead, kill me.”

Suddenly Mort was holding a blade. Through the turmoil of emotion banging around in Gerome’s head, a strange thought rang out: that was Balmung, a legendary blade that had been possessed by Robin the tactician. It had disappeared along with Robin and Aversa, after the defeat of Grima. How had Mort managed to get it?

Mort shoved him backwards, down the stairs, away from the throne. Behind him, through panicked tears, Gerome thought he saw the gate light up. Strange sounds pierced his consciousness. It was as if someone was trying to speak to him, but the words were being shouted from a thousand miles away.

“Wulf, Joab, sound the alarm,” Mort instructed. “We’re having an emergency roll call. Everyone is to report to the square out front by the top of the hour.”

“Aye aye, cap’n!” Joab said with a giggle. Wulf said nothing, but grabbed both Cherche and Little Gerome, dragging them outside.

Mort pointed the blade at Gerome’s chest. “Outside. Now.”

“What are you...what are you going to…” Gerome mumbled, feeling numb.

“A rebellion is brewing, Brady! You know this and I know this. And I won’t have it! I WON’T HAVE IT!” he screamed, truly coming unhinged. “It’s time for Ylisstol to learn what happens when you disobey me! Now MOVE!”

For the second time, a supernatural force seemed to overcome Gerome, and he felt his body obey Mort’s instructions without any consent from his brain. He turned and began walking outside into the dark night, the sound of the alarm ringing out over the still city.

If there were a time to think of a way out of this mess, it was now. Now or never.

He thought…

...Of nothing. No grand strategy, no daring escape. His mind was a total blank. He wasn’t a hero. He was no Robin, or Chrom, or Lucina. It shouldn’t have been him in this situation. It should never have been him.

And now, thanks to him, the city would soon be burning, and all his friends would be dead.


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nah meets with her parents, which is odd, because they are dead. A new antagonist reveals themselves. A choice is made.

Chapter 9  
Time - Early evening, 7 days after the Harvest Festival  
Place - Wilderness, south of Feroxi border

It was freezing.

It had been cold before, but it had been a believable cold, a cold without natural parameters for the physical realm. This was an otherworldly cold, a cold summoned from a nightmare.

Lucina was wrapped up in so many layers that she looked like a sphere. Nah had her arms wrapped around the young girl as well, more to provide comfort and reassurance than anything else.

They should have arrived in Regna Ferox by now. Nah struggled to keep track of time, but was fairly certain it had now been almost a week of travel. They were so far behind schedule that now she was convinced malevolent forces were at play. The freak blizzard, the monstrous bear…

“Nah!”

She furiously shook her head. 

For a few hours now she had been seeing things and hearing voices. Always just on the edge of her senses, and when she tried to focus, they were gone.

Her parents.

“Nowi…” came another voice, but this one was soft and close. It was Lucina, drifting dangerously close to unconsciousness.

“I’m here, Lucina,” Nah responded. She wanted to reach the Feroxi border as soon as they could, but it simply wasn’t possible. If they stayed out in the cold for too long, they’d die, simple as that. They had to find shelter again soon.

“Nah!”

Gods, this was getting frustrating.

But there it was again - that bright green hair that could belong to nobody else in the world but her mother. She focused with all her might through the blinding haze of snow on that pink figure. That wasn’t her outfit, but her skin, as even in this deathly cold she was wearing that ridiculously impractical harness that had always so annoyed Nah.

Maybe if you had worn some actual armour you would have survived the fight with Grima, she thought. Maybe if you weren’t such an irresponsible fool…

And yet she was so glad to see her again, she could feel the tears welling up behind her eyes.

“Come on!” the ghostly apparition cheered. “Follow me! Let’s play!”

The figure turned and ran into the snow, out of sight.

“Wait!” Nah cried, spurring the horse to follow after her.

“What..?” Lucina asked.

“No, I was talking to…” Nah began to explain, then stopped. What the hell was she doing? This wasn’t real. Her mother had died years ago. She was seeing things, probably because she was on the verge of death herself.

And yet, she kept the horse going after that spectral figure. Why not? What other ideas did she have?

They rode forward through the impenetrable curtain of white, until she could once again see that flash of green, just on the edge of her field of vision. Nowi waved, giggled, and took off again.

Where are you leading me..? Nah wondered. Maybe it would be a nice rock she could die under.

No, she had to survive. She had to reach the end of this, or else Lucina would...she would not let that happen again.

“What’s the matter, kiddo? Didn’t your parents ever tell you not to leave home without a sweater? You could catch your death! Nyeh heh!”

She closed her eyes, slowly turned her head to look behind her, and opened them.

She stared daggers at the ghostly visage of her grinning father.

“What’s the matter, nothing to say to your ol’ pa? Maybe you’ve got cold feet. Or just...cold everything! Nyeh heh!”

“Why are you doing this?” Nah shouted, unable to contain her frustration any longer. “What kind of sick game are you trying to play?”

“Ooh, you know I love a good sick game, aheh, but I’m afraid I don’t have any on me right now. No, I just think we should step into somewhere a bit warmer to help clear our heads, is all. Come on!”

Henry turned and walked away into the blizzard, just as Nowi had.

“Damn you!” Nah shouted, then remembered her company, and quickly amended it to, “dang you!”

And yet, like a puppet on a string, she followed after him.

And there, ahead of them, was a cave.

She rode into it and immediately the reprieve from the unfettered elements was heavenly. She rode into it, deeper and deeper, before turning back and realizing that she was a surprising distance from the entrance. This cave was...huge. It was exactly what they needed. It was a lifesaver.

Her parents had led her to a miracle.

She shook her head. That was stupid. But...it was hard to explain this away as just a coincidence.

“Henry?” she called out. Of course there was no response. Now that the numbing cold was starting to recede, the haze that had descended on her mind was also lifting. Everything that had happened out there was starting to feel like it had all just been a dream.

“Who is Henry?” Lucina asked, as she slid off the horse and began to wobble around the cave. She clumsily fell onto her butt and began rubbing her legs in an attempt to get blood flowing through them again.

“He…” Nah began. How the hell was she going to explain this one to a little kid?

But she looked down at the young princess. Though it had been only a few days, the experience seemed to have caused her to age immensely. Her face seemed wiser, more stern, more readily able to accept the hardships being placed before them.

In their original timeline, Lucina had grown up as a princess in a time of war. She had quickly learned that the fun, carefree existence of other children her age was not one she would get to enjoy. That Lucina had been stern, serious, willing to sacrifice anything to protect her kingdom.

Was the same thing destined to happen again? Would every Lucina always suffer hardships at far too young an age, and grow up far too fast?

Lucina had led them through their doomed future, brought them to the past, organized them in their efforts to stop Grima once and for all. Everything that had happened to her had forged her into exactly the leader they had needed her to be.

Nah decided Lucina - any Lucina - deserved the truth.

“Henry was my father,” she said, softly, as Lucina watched her intently. “He died, years ago, along with my mother. I know that they’re dead, and that there’s no coming back from that. But I thought I saw them, and they led me to this cave.”

“And this cave is so warm,” Lucina said. “Your parents saved us!”

Nah looked around at the dark interior of the cave. “Yeah...it seems that way, doesn’t it? I wonder how deep this cave goes.”

“We should find out! Let’s explore,” Lucina said. She sounded excited for the first time in days. Having a concrete goal certainly seemed to have lifted her spirits.

Nah actually felt vaguely optimistic for the first time in a while, too. If her parents - or whatever that had been - had led her here for a reason, then something important must have been in this cave.

She cast a spell on herself, and a tiny globe of light began to circle around her, bobbing and weaving, illuminating the cavern around her. Lucina gave it an awed look.

“Stick close to me,” Nah ordered, and set out.

The cave was utterly pitch black up ahead, with only Nah’s spell serving just enough illumination to make sure they weren’t about to take a short step off a long cliff. But the journey was boring, uneventful, and oddly comforting. It was still toasty, making Nah wonder if some hot springs were possibly located nearby. That would certainly be nice...she found herself reminiscing about the time she and her friends had traveled to a hot spring. There had been Risen to fight, but afterwards they stayed and relaxed. She and Lucina had bonded and combed each others hair…

She felt herself tearing up, and quickly swallowed the emotions back down.

“Nowi, look, up ahead!” the Lucina of the here and now whispered.

Nah squinted through the darkness at what appeared to be a large nest. It smelled lived-in, as if some animals had been here recently. Of course, it would make sense for wildlife to be living in here; Nah mentally prepared herself for combat, looking around to see if any creatures were stalking them.

“Seems whatever lives in here is out at the moment,” Nah concluded. “Let’s look around, we may find some food or fur.”

“Good thinking,” Lucina said. “I’m so hungry I could eat a bear. No, two bears! No, no, three bears!”

Nah chuckled. “Yes, I could probably eat a couple of bears myself. Though I doubt we’ll be so lucky as to…”

Her voice trailed off.

She slowly stepped forward towards a table littered with equipment. Vials, alembics, calipers, sheafs of paper covered in mad scribbles, quills and ink pots. No animal did this. This was all man made.

She picked up the paper and began flipping through, hoping for some hint of who might be living in this cave. Most of the documents seemed to be blueprints of some sort, detailing the design for some sort of...gate? It looked like a metallic arch, requiring massive amounts of magical energy to power it. She squinted to read the chicken-scratch handwriting. What was this thing...for?

Unable to make heads or tails of what she was looking at, Nah continued to rifle through the papers. Not all of them were mechanical blueprints. Some seemed to be...character designs? She gasped when she realized what she was seeing.

The first page had a rough sketch of a man in simple leather clothing. He seemed dirty and unshaven, and had a big, skeezy grin. Underneath the portrait was the label “Illusion: Joab”.

Nah hesitantly flipped to the next page. There she saw exactly what she had been expecting: a drawing of a large, bulky man with a shaved head and a menacing expression. This one was labeled “Illusion: Wulf”.

She had seen these men before. But what did this mean?

She flipped to the next page, expecting to see Mort. Instead, she saw a painstakingly detailed drawing of a burning city. Tiny people with no distinguishing features except for X’s where their eyes should be littered the landscape.

Above it all, menacing and serpentine…

“Grima!” Nah gasped.

“N-Nowi?” came Lucina’s voice, small and weak, from behind her. Something about it made Nah’s blood run cold as she slowly turned around.

“You have her call you Nowi? That’s a bit perverse, isn’t it?”

A figure was standing behind Lucina, a sharp and jagged knife drawn and pressed against the young princess’s neck. The figure was short, about Nah’s height, but held herself with a steady poise that gave the impression of a much older woman.

“Don’t hurt her,” Nah said, both a plea and a threat. “She’s just a child. Let her go.”

The woman went tsk, tsk, tsk. “We both know she’s not ‘just a child,’ Nah. She’s a very important child. A linchpin, in a way.” She took a few steps backwards, towards the entrance of the cave. Lucina whimpered, but fought to hold back the tears, to keep a brave face.

Nah took a few steps after her, but was careful not to get too close. “Who are you?” she asked. “What do you want?”

“In a way, I’m happy that it’s you, being such a pain in the ass.” The woman cast an illumination spell, the same Nah had cast earlier.

“You’re...a manakete,” Nah pointed out. “But...why…”

“You’ve been pretty resilient, I’ll admit,” the manakete said. “But you’re still very weak, compared to me. It’s not your fault, really. You know what they say, hard times breed great men, great times breed weak men. Women. Whatever.”

“I still have no idea what you’re talking about,” Nah said, trying to move steadily forward, close the distance so that she could do...what, exactly? There was no way she could attack without Lucina getting hurt.

“Careful! Stay where you are,” the other manakete warned. Nah obeyed. What choice did she have?

“...I saw your notes,” Nah ventured, hoping to keep the conversation going long enough for some other plan to occur to her. “You want to bring Grima back. You must know that’s madness, right?”

At this, the other woman let out a sharp, ugly laugh that echoed through the cave. “Bring him back? You’re mistaken. Grima never left.”

Nah could hear sounds reverberating throughout the cave. Footsteps getting closer. No...not footsteps…

The bear, unnaturally massive and crackling with dark magical energy, entered the light, it’s hot breath and otherworldly stench overwhelming Nah’s senses. It stopped and stood obediently by the other manakete.

“You did quite a number on my friend, here. Of course, as we already discussed, I’m stronger than you. It was really no trouble at all to patch him up and give him a little power boost.” The woman backed away, dragging Lucina with her, as the bear stepped in between the two of them.

“Wait! Stop!” Nah cried after them. She was met with a deafening roar that nearly knocked her off her feet.

But she held her ground. She stared down the magical beast. She was not going to lose another Lucina. No matter what!

And there, in her peripheral vision...Nowi and Henry watched, and smiled.

“We’re here for you!” Nowi cheered.

“You won’t have to, uh, grin and bear this alone!” Henry said. Instead of following up with his signature cackle, he frowned. “Oof, that was bad, even for me…”

“Are you real?” Nah asked, in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

“Real enough,” Nowi responded, and Nah felt her heart lift.

She had become obsessed with this notion that history was repeating itself, that the timeline was doomed to the same darkness they had fought so hard to escape from. But Anna had said it was all about choices - not just choices of luck, like which side a coin will land on, but every choice.

There was still hope.

Nah chose to charge.


	11. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerome makes a stand. Nah and Lucina fight for their lives. Morgan undergoes Trial by Anna. Inigo makes a confession.

Chapter 10

The people of the city filed into the square before the castle, grumpy and tired but helpless to resist…

The crowd gathered around the makeshift arena, excitedly chattering amongst themselves and waiting for the fun to begin…

No people watched, but the weight of a timeline sat heavily on their shoulders, uncertain which path of the infinite possibilities would unfold…

“Thank you for coming, everyone,” Mort called out, to a chorus of utter silence. “I apologize for the lateness of the hour, but I’m afraid this simply couldn’t wait.”

He waved an arm at Gerome, who stood there lifeless and defeated, flanked by Wulf and Joab as they held Cherche and the younger version of himself.

“This man is a traitor,” Mort announced. “And I must demonstrate what I do to traitors that would seek to destabilize my glorious city.”

Mort drew Balmung. Now a hushed whisper was breaking out through the crowd, as people began to fear they were about to witness an execution. The Risen and Plegian guards lashed out at random civilians, barking for quiet, but the commotion would not die down.

“They won’t stand for this,” Gerome said, quietly, so that only those at the top of the palace steps could hear him. “Their fear may override their sense of justice right now, but if you kill a child in front of them, they’ll swarm these steps and tear you limb from limb.”

Mort glared at Gerome, his eyes filled with hatred, and stepped towards him. He leaned in, until his mouth was almost touching Gerome’s ear.

“I will happily murder every last man, woman, and child in this city,” he whispered. “None of them matter to me. I came here for only one thing, and it is almost within my grasp.”

As he pulled away, Gerome gave him a confused, almost sympathetic look. “What is it you want? Just tell me, and I can try to help you. You don’t need to do this.”

Mort lifted Balmung and brought it down so quickly that Gerome didn’t have time to react. It came down hilt first, smashing into his forehead, drawing blood and sending him to the ground, head pounding and vision blurred.

 

“Thank you for coming, everyone,” Anna called out, to a chorus of wild cheering and applause. “I apologize for the lateness of the hour, but I’m afraid that these things just look way more dramatic at night, with torches and shit, y’know?”

Morgan stood nearby, rolling her shoulders and taking deep breaths. She could do this. She was a good fighter. She was strong, she was fast, she was a quick thinker. Her parents had trained her well. Presumably.

She scanned the crowd. It was just Annas. Well, and Veronica, who seemed to be taking bets. From what she could hear, Morgan wasn’t being given very good odds.

Anna - the one in charge, that Morgan had begun thinking of as Anna Prime - slapped Morgan on the back. “You ready, kid? This is your last chance to back out. Once you enter that arena, you either leave as an Anna, or a corpse.”

“I’m ready,” Morgan said, trying to sound more confident than she felt.

“Great - because here comes Anna.”

Another Anna was approaching, the crowd parting like water to let her through. Her long red hair was tied up in a ponytail. She was garbed in fanciful armour, as bright red as her hair, though it seemed designed to allow for ease of movement more than protection. Her face was severe - she looked like quite possibly the only Anna in the world not having a great time.

Strapped to her hips were two long, curved swords. They looked to be of pristine quality, at least compared to the crummy broadsword Morgan had been stuck with since the Harvest Festival.

“Gulp,” Morgan said, as her throat had gone so dry she couldn’t actually gulp.

As she watched, however, the Anna she would be fighting removed both her swords, knelt down, and placed them reverently on the ground. Then she stood back up and entered the arena.

“No outside weaponry,” Anna Prime said as she noticed Morgan’s confused expression.

“But...I thought this was supposed to be a duel..?”

“It is,” Anna Prime said with a nod. “An Anna must be a totally fierce, kick-ass bitch. But that’s far from our only skill. You’ll need to use every trait at your disposal to win this.”

Morgan wasn’t sure exactly what to make of this, but it didn’t dampen her determination. She straightened her posture, trying to make herself look slightly taller and more intimidating, and stepped into the arena.

 

Gerome struggled back to his feet, but a swift kick to the ribs sent him back down again.

“Stay down,” Mort instructed.

The Mad King stepped over the prone form of the elder Gerome, making his way towards the younger Gerome, who was still struggling in the impenetrable grip of Wulf. Gerome rolled to his side to see, saw the tears in his mother’s eyes, heard the muffled screaming behind her gag.

Despite the pain all over his body, Gerome stood back up. “No!” he shouted.

Mort turned back around, grinning. “You really don’t know how to take good advice when it’s given to you, do you?” he said, as he stormed back over to him, and punched him in the face. Gerome felt his nose snap, as he collapsed backwards, his head banging into the stone steps beneath them.

“STAY DOWN!” Mort screamed.

By now there was a constant buzzing noise in Gerome’s head. But behind it he could hear the crowd, their muttered gasps becoming louder, more outspoken.

“...Completely defenseless…”

“...Going to hurt that kid…”

“...Can’t just let him…”

Joab shoved Cherche to the ground, and walked to the edge of the crowd. “Oi, quiet, you lot! Resistin’ just makes it worse for everyone!” he shouted.

Gerome stood up.

A few people in the crowd cheered. Those who were so brazen were swiftly sought out in the crowd, guards bringing cudgels down on them. And yet this only seemed to embolden others.

“MORT!” Gerome yelled, blood streaming down his face. He hobbled forward.

Joab turned to face him, his rotten yellow teeth bared in an angry leer. He pulled a dagger and stepped towards Gerome.

“You best be getting back down on that ground, boyo,” Joab growled. “I ain’t gonna ask twice.”

“Get out of my way,” Gerome responded, his voice flat. “I’m not asking once.”

Joab brought his blade up in a sharp, slashing motion, but Gerome was ready for it. He grabbed the man’s wrist in his right hand, and deftly spun his left elbow down on it, snapping it in one smooth motion. Joab let out a stream of curses and collapsed to the ground.

“My arm!” he moaned. “Grima be good, he broke my arm!”

The crowd continued to cheer, completely overwhelming the guard’s abilities to keep them in check. Gerome locked eyes with Mort and continued moving forwards.

And in the crowd, the feverish mumbling continued to ripple outwards.

“He’s rebelling! And if he can do it, so can we!”

Gaius listened. They weren’t ready. They didn’t have enough weapons. They didn’t have enough trained fighters. They had no element of surprise.

He watched Gerome, with a fair amount of admiration on his face, and said, “aw, to hell with it.”

 

Nah felt the power of her dragonstone flow through her as she lunged forward. It invigorated and empowered her, yes, but most of this energy was coming from somewhere else.

It was time to end this.

Magical dragon and magical bear collided. The bear resisted, attempting to hold it’s ground and push back into the cave, but dragon won. Nah forced the bear backwards down to the entrance of the cavern, clawing and biting as they rolled round and round back into the frigid air.

Once they were safely outside, Nah disengaged and rolled to a safe vantage point. This wasn’t a maneuver dragons were built to excel at; her wings pinched and folded in uncomfortable angles as she scrabbled to get back upright.

She finally oriented herself just in time to see the bear charging back at her, with hardly a scratch visible on it. She instinctively ducked down, and when the bear was almost on her, brought her claws up, raking across it’s softer underbelly and sending it up into the air above her. This was quickly followed by a blast of flame that exploded around it, pushing it away. Nah got oriented much quicker this time, and saw the bear laying in a heap nearby, smoldering slightly as snowflakes landed atop it.

“Suck it! SUUUUCCCCKKKK IIIIIT!” she cheered, her voice reverberating around the forest.

A sharp pain hit her in the spine, and her back legs went numb. She slumped to the ground, her head half burying itself into a snowbank.

“Not very appropriate language when there are children around,” came the voice of the other manakete.

“Nowi! Nowi!” she heard Lucina’s voice cry, getting fainter and fainter…

 

This was it. All or nothing; life or death. Everything had been leading up to this moment. So much was riding on what would happen in the next few seconds. Could one man even handle such an awesome responsibility?

“Put it all on red,” Inigo said.

“Aaaand...23 black!” Anna called out.

“Ah, well, you win some, you lose some,” Inigo said with a shrug. He turned back to his entourage of three Anna’s, all in low-cut tops. “Another round of drinks for my beautiful ladies! Put it on my tab!”

The Anna’s cheered and giggled while Inigo beamed. Boy, making friends was easy here. He sat down in between them and wrapped his arms around all three.

“Ladies, I think I’m in love with you,” he said.

“Oh, I bet you say that to all the girls,” one of the Anna’s responded.

“Not true!” Inigo shot back, acting scandalized. He paused a moment, then added, “just the hot ones!”

They all erupted in laughter.

This was the life.

Suddenly Inigo was jerked to his feet and a voice said, “what are you doing? Morgan is in trouble!”

He looked around in confusion. “I-is that you, conscience!?”

“What? No, it’s your father!” Kellam said, suddenly appearing in front of him.

“Oh.”

“Look,” his father said, his face showing a mixture of annoyance and concern. Inigo wasn’t use to seeing him display much emotion at all, so he couldn’t help but take notice. “I don’t know what happened or why you’re trying to deal with it by drinking, gambling, and cavorting with loose women - er, no offense ladies--”

“Oh, none taken.”

“But Morgan is actually out there risking her life to help us get back to Ylisstol, and--”

“Wait, back up,” Inigo said. “Morgan is risking her life? What the hell is she doing?”

Kellam shrugged. “It’s some sort of trial by combat the Anna’s have. If Morgan wins, they’ll come with us to Ylisstol to help fight against Mort and the Plegians. But she could die, and she’s willing to do it anyway. Because this matters to her. Does anything matter to you, Inigo?”

Inigo was silent for a moment.

“Morgan matters to me,” he said, softly.

“Then prove it!” Kellam snapped, his voice uncharacteristically heated. “She needs us!”

“Damnit, you’re right,” Inigo said, more loudly, some of his spirit coming back. “This isn’t like me. I’ve never been one to let a little total failure keep me down. It’s just...I actually care about Morgan, you know? She’s not like the random women I flirt with all the time, she actually MEANS something to me. No offense, ladies.”

“Oh, none taken.”

“With Morgan I’m...actually worried about screwing everything up. I’m worried that if I actually try, if I actually take it seriously...and I fail...I won’t be able to bounce back from that one.”

Kellam firmly clasped his son by both shoulders. “Then go tell her that,” he said. “You know...after you make sure she doesn’t die in the pointless bloodsport thing.”

“Yeah,” Inigo said, then he said it again, louder. “YEAH! We’re going to get out of this mess, and we’re going to do it together! Just the two of us against the world!”

“Yeah!” Kellam cheered in agreement. “Just the three of us against the - oh, he’s gone.”

“You must be a big man to need such big armour,” one of the Anna’s said, cozying up next to him.

Kellam’s face turned a bright pink. “I’m married,” he stammered, before rushing off after his son.

 

The storm was weakening around her. It might makes things easier for the Ylisseans and that damnable Nah, but it was a risk she was willing to take now that the end was so close in sight.

A Feroxi outpost was nearby, and the manakete knew the way. She moved relentlessly forward, holding tight onto Lucina despite her struggles and muffled protests.

Some of the guards stationed there were stepping outside and looking around in shocked relief at the sudden halting of the magical storm. One of them noticed the strange woman approaching and hustled over to meet them.

“You there! What brings you out here?” he asked. He slowed, a concerned look growing across his face as he noticed the struggling girl in her arms. “What are you--”

The manakete waved a hand dismissively, and a blast of fire radiated outwards, colliding with the shiny but ineffective armour of the guardsman. They crumpled backwards, the life instantly snuffed out of them.

Several more guards gathered around to see what was happening, but few seemed willing to approach the stranger. These weren’t seasoned fighters, just young trainees looking to do their job. They weren’t quite willing to die for it.

“Listen up,” the manakete said, her calm voice easily carrying for everyone to hear. “Bring me a horse, and admit me safe passage through your lands, and no one else will have to die.”

There was some muttered whispering amongst the soldiers, but one nodded enthusiastically and ran towards the stables.

“Good. The rest of you, no sudden movements, or-- AUGH!” she suddenly screamed, dropping Lucina. The young girl hit the ground running, bounding back into the forest as fast as she could. “She bit me!” the manakete snarled, clutching her hand. “Little BRAT!”

As her anger flared, so too did the storm, the brief lull giving way to a renewed blast of heavy, biting winds. The manakete turned towards where Lucina had disappeared, and pulled her hood back up.

Eyes dark with rage, she followed.

 

Gerome’s steady march forwards came to a halt, as Wulf raised young Gerome up with one hand.

“I will rip his limbs off, one at a time,” the man rumbled. “He will die. Eventually.”

“You’ve been outplayed, Brady,” Mort snapped, spitting the name. “Your defiance will cost this city dearly, but know that it will get worse, oh so much worse, the longer you persist.” He stepped forward, sword raised, pointing it at Gerome’s chest. “Get on the ground, and stay there.”

Gerome remained standing.

“GET ON THE GROUND!” Mort screamed, one eye twitching madly. “AND STAY THERE!”

Gerome looked at Mort, at Wulf, at his mother weeping with rage and fear, at young Gerome who seemed numb to what was going on, at the crowd cheering for him to resist.

Once more at his younger self.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Gods forgive me.”

He charged towards Mort.

“WULF!” the Mad King screamed. “Kill the boy!”

There was a loud crack.

Mort paused, and turned his head.

Wulf’s eyes were wide. He teetered on his feet for a moment, then began to slump forwards, his body going limp, reminiscent of an avalanche.

A pair of hands shot out and grabbed young Gerome before he could be crushed, and then Wulf smashed into the ground.

“Sorry, was that anticlimactic?” Prince Gaius asked, child in one hand, sap in the other. He gently lowered young Gerome to the ground, and tussled his hair with his free hand. “Be a good boy and go untie your mum, eh?”

“...Gaius!?” Mort snapped, clearly taken off guard by this course of events.

He was taken even further off guard when Gerome punched him in the jaw.

 

“The rules are simple!” Anna Prime called out, as Morgan and Samurai Anna faced off before her. “Two women enter, one woman leaves. You may not bring any outside weaponry into this fight; all weaponry will be provided for you, at a prince.” At this, another Anna entered the area, and set up shop in the corner, a variety of weaponry from the exotic and deadly to the mundane and pathetic arrayed before her. “You may use any trick available to you to procure the weapons you desire, aside from violence towards the shopkeeper, as the shopkeeper is a sacred role in Anna society.”

A reverent whisper went out through the crowd, as the Anna’s seemingly echoed their agreement that shopkeeping was a crucial task.

“Do you agree to the terms?” Anna Prime asked.

Samurai Anna bowed, first to Anna Prime, then to Morgan. “I agree to fight by these terms, and will bring pride to my name.”

Morgan stood there, looking between the two, then realized that every other pair of eyes was on her.

“Oh, uh, right,” she said, quickly bowing. “Yep, I...also those things you just said.”

Anna Prime exited the arena. “Then by the power invested in me by the Council of Anna, I declare this Trial by Anna...begin!”

Morgan put her arms up in a defensive position, expecting an attack from her opponent, but Anna simply turned and ran towards the weapons stand. Cursing herself, Morgan took off after her.

“Welcome! What’ll it be?” the Shopkeeper Anna asked as Samurai Anna approached.

The samurai pulled out a pouch of gold coins and threw it on the counter. “I’ll start with something simple,” she said, loudly and dramatically for the benefit of the crowd. “To give the poor girl a chance!” She grabbed a pair of nunchaku, and spun away with them, spinning the weapons around herself as she moved, like a graceful and sensual dancer who happened to be holding a weapon that could beat someone to death.

“Uh,” Morgan mumbled, as she reached the shopkeeper. She dug furiously through her pockets, and came up with a few loose coins. “What’ll this get me?”

Anna counted out the coins, laughed, and pointed at...what appeared to be a large wooden fork.

Morgan held it up and inspected it in front of her face. “Okay...what the hell am I supposed to do with th-- YAARGH!”

Her opponent was coming at her, fast, nunchaku blurring in the air as they lashed out. Morgan held up her eating utensil to deflect a few blows, but they were coming in quick, and her grip on the awkwardly shaped weapon was already starting to slip.

She waited for the first possible opportunity, then thrust the fork upwards. Thankfully she timed it right, and the chain connecting the nunchaku caught in between two of the oversized prongs. Morgan threw the fork away, pulling the nunchaku with them.

Now they were both unarmed, and on even ground.

Or so Morgan assumed, until Anna spun around, bringing one of her legs up in a powerful roundhouse kick that hit Morgan in the ribs and knocked her backwards, the breath fleeing her body.

“Urf!” she gasped, landing on her back. “They warned me...not to skip leg day...why didn’t I listen..?”

She scrabbled backwards in the sand, as Anna slowly approached, cracking her neck in anticipation.

“Morgan!” a voice called out. “Morgan!”

“What?” Morgan called back, clamoring to her feet and running in a circular motion, away from Anna.

“It’s Inigo! I have to tell you something!”

Morgan looked up and saw him on the edge of the crowd, looking down into the arena. He was waving his arms wildly.

“...Can this wait? Kind of in the middle of something here-- oof!” Another leaping kick hit her in the chest, knocking her backwards. She got up again quickly, but she knew that her stamina would drain quickly at this rate.

“Er, no, I don’t think so! It’s really important!” Inigo yelled out.

“Hey, kid, we’re in the middle of a climactic fight scene here,” Anna Prime snapped at him. “Unless what you have to say heightens the dramatic tension somehow, then can it!”

Inigo looked at her, annoyed, ready to tear into her for putting Morgan at risk with this needless death match, but...something about her smirk, about the playful look in her eyes…

“I get it,” he said, understanding dawning. “This isn’t a real fight to the death, is it? This is all a show!”

Anna Prime giggled. “Dramatic flair, baby. Understanding it is crucial to being an Anna.” She eyed Inigo up and down, smiling. “I almost get the feeling you’d fit in, if it weren’t for that unsightly thing between your legs.”

“Haha, okay, well,” Inigo sputtered, blushing furiously. “I happen to be rather attached to that unsightly thing, but thanks. As it is...how’s this for heightening the dramatic tension?”

He looked down at Morgan, who was stuck in a loop of getting kicked in the stomach, falling down, standing back up, and getting kicked in the stomach again.

“MORGAN!” Inigo yelled one last time, loud enough to even get Anna to stop kicking for a moment and look up at him.

A thousand eyes were on him, but none of them mattered except hers.

“I’m in love with you,” he said.

“What?” Morgan called back.

“I SAID I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU,” Inigo shouted, his voice cracking.

There was a long, painfully awkward silence.

“We may use any trick at our disposal?” Morgan asked, looking up at Anna Prime. Anna appeared confused, but nodded. Morgan spun around, facing the crowd. “Behold! I have used my feminine wiles to make this young man fall in love with me!” she called out, gesturing to Inigo. “He would do anything to please me - including risk his life to enter this arena, and fight alongside me!”

Every head turned from Morgan back to Inigo.

“Right!?” Morgan hissed.

“Oh! Uhm, right,” Inigo responded. “Quake in fear, foe, before the might of true love’s flame!”

He jumped into the arena, and swiftly rushed to Morgan’s side. She smiled at him when he got there.

“So, uh…” he began.

“I love you too, dummy,” she responded, quietly. “So, I’m thinking we kick this lady’s ass, and have a dramatic first kiss while she cries uncle and the crowd goes wild?”

Inigo nodded. “Alright, I’m in.”

They turned to Anna.

“Oh, this is bullshit,” she said with a sigh.

 

The sounds of battle were ringing out across the castle square. The members of the resistance were furiously passing out weapons to the clamoring mass of Ylisseans. Soon the tide was flowing against the Risen and Plegians; they were better equipped and better trained, but hopelessly outnumbered. Ylisseans were being cut down, yes. It was a bloodbath. But for each citizen that fell, two more took their place, undeterred, ferocious in their pursuit of freedom.

“It’s over!” Gerome yelled, placing his foot on Mort’s chest. “Call off your men! Tell them to stand down! There doesn’t need to be any more bloodshed today.”

Mort was mumbling under his breath. His eyes were glazed over, as if he were in a fever dream. Gerome strained to hear what he was saying.

“Mort,” Gerome said. “Tell your men to stand down! NOW!”

“Iamyourloyalservanthelpmenowprotectmeaswefightinyourname--”

“Perhaps you are too far gone,” Gerome said, unable to feel any sorrow. “We will put you out of your misery.”

“The revolution goes well!” came the voice of Owain, as he fought his way through to the stairs. “You have inspired us to great victory, O fearless leader!”

“Three cheers for Gerome! I mean, uh, Brady,” Brady said, following along behind Owain. “Shit, I guess that’s kinda confusin’ now, huh? Aw, well. You’re the hero Ylisse needs, pal, not me.”

Gerome looked between the two of them, genuinely confused. So much had happened so fast, he could barely comprehend all of it.

“That doesn’t matter,” he said, dismissing all of it out of hand. “Owain, I need your sword. In the name of Ylisse and by the grace of all the Gods, I will execute this man for his crimes.”

He removed his foot from Mort’s chest, and knelt down to grab the disgraced king and drag him to his feet.

“Grantmepowerinyournamepleasewebeseechyoualmighty--”

“Quiet!” Gerome shouted, rapidly losing his patience.

“GRIMA!” Mort screamed. The stones cracked beneath his feet. Gerome flew backwards and landed hard against a stone wall, his head cracking so hard that his vision blurred and his legs went numb.

“YOU THINK I CARE ABOUT YOUR CITY?” Mort continued screaming, his voice amplified, booming across the square, like a war horn heralding the armies of hell. “YOU THINK I CARE ABOUT YOUR PATHETIC LIVES? NONE OF YOU NEED BE KEPT ALIVE FOR WHAT WE HAVE PLANNED-”

“Oh, put a sock in it, would you?” Gaius snapped, charging him from behind, dagger in hand.

“No…” Gerome mumbled, too weak to intervene, as Mort effortlessly sidestepped the attack and brought his fist hard across Gaius’ cheekbone, shattering it and sending the prince collapsing to the ground.

 

“Where are you?” the manakete hissed in a truly serpentine voice, squinting through the storm for any sign of the young princess. “Come out, come out…”

She looked down, and smirked. Footsteps; the renewed storm had begun to cover them, but not enough for them to evade her sight. Soon the brat would be in her hands once more, and she’d be off to more favourable climates.

She kept her eyes down, following the footsteps through the snow, until they ended at a snow bank. Huh. That was odd…

“...Lucina?” she called out, trying a more friendly approach. “You’ll catch your death out here! Come to me, I won’t hurt you. I’ll take you somewhere nice and warm!”

The snow bank shifted slightly. What was that fool girl doing, trying to hide in the snow like this? She must be freezing to death!

The manakete rolled her eyes and bent down to brush the snow away. “Stupid kid…” she muttered to herself, then said more audibly, “come on out, Lucina, I’m going to get you somewhere safe--”

Nah burst forth from the earth like a mythical leviathan, steam pouring off of her body as she collided with the other manakete. She was in her humanoid form, small and lithe, but she fought as ferociously as a dragon, clawing and biting, punching and kicking. She pushed her foe downwards, hands grasping around her neck, but the other manakete was slightly more fit, just enough to shove Nah away and gain the upper hand in the brawl.

“Idiot!” the woman screamed, as Nah fell before her into the snow. “They say hypothermia is a rather peaceful way to go. Now I think I’ll gut you like a fish instead. If Lucina gets cold, I can stuff her inside you. Hah!” She drew a blade…

 

“Father!” Owain shouted, and charged forward.

“Owain, no,” Gerome muttered, stretching his arm out, for all the good it did him. Owain was an adequate swordfighter but was much more flash than substance. Rage propelled him forward, and he swung his blade wildly at Mort, but the prince dodged right, then left, then right again, seeming to exert no effort as Owain expended all of his.

“FOOL,” Mort shouted, drawing Balmung in a blur and parrying away Owain’s sword. They clashed a few more times, but then, in the blink of an eye, Owain’s sword shattered, the hilt flying out of his hands and skittering across the bloody stones.  
“The revolution will not stand for this!” Owain cheered. “You will fall this day, tyrant!”

Mort grabbed him by the neck with one hand and lifted him off his feet.

“PRETTY WORDS,” he growled. “I PREFER: DEATH TO TRAITORS.”

He drew his sword.

“Mort,” called out a voice, calm, serene, the complete opposite of Mort’s booming howl, and yet it carried just as far, struck with just as much impact.

Mort narrowed his eyes, punched Owain into unconsciousness, and tossed him aside, his limp body landing across that of his father’s.

“SO,” he said, turning to face the one bold enough to address him.

Despite the great pain, Gerome turned his head to see Roy step forward. His walk was slow. His body was still heavily bandaged. But he wore a sword, hilted on his back, and did not stop approaching until he was face to face with the mad king.

“This world rejected Grima once,” he said, something in his rough and scarred voice enthralling everyone in the crowded square. “For all his power, all his majesty, we stood together and told him in one voice: no. We will not bow, we will not serve. We will die first, and we will die fighting. You, some puppet hoping to grasp at a shred of his power...you think you can do better?”

“HEH,” Mort responded. “YOU ALL THINK IT’S OVER, DON’T YOU? THAT YOU BEAT GRIMA, THAT THE POWER OF FRIENDSHIP KILLED HIM, THAT A MAGICAL RAINBOW WILL SAVE YOU ALL? GRIMA ISN’T GONE. THERE IS NO YOUR GRIMA, OR MY GRIMA. THERE IS ONLY GRIMA. HE EXISTS AS ONE, ACROSS A MILLION WORLDS, A MILLION TIMELINES. HE WILL CONQUER THEM ALL. WORLDS LIKE THIS ONE, WHERE HE HAS MERELY BEEN DELAYED...ARE A GLITCH. A MISTAKE. THEY SHOULD NEVER HAVE HAPPENED. AND THEY WILL BE CORRECTED.”

He drew his blade, and pointed it at Roy.

“SO,” he said once again. “THIS TIME, I WILL FINISH YOU.”

Gerome watched, in dazed confusion, as Roy drew Falchion, divine blade of the exalts, and levelled it alongside Balmung.

“You will try,” Roy said.

The blades clashed. The effect was almost magical. The two fighters danced around each other, burned man and mad prince, swords drawing together and pulling apart, each slash countered, each lunge parried. To Gerome, who was starting to push himself back upright, it looked as if Naga and Grima themselves were dueling, divine dragon and fel dragon sweeping through the sky, locked in a battle that would determine the fact of the world.

Brady stood by at the top of the stairs, arms outstretched to try and stop any onlooking civilians from getting close. “Stay back!” he snapped. “That crazy goodfernuthin’ would slaughter any of us! Leave it to Roy! Give ‘em space!”

Gerome was back on his feet, but he was too beaten to move forward, too dazed to even remember how. Besides, brady was right; this fight was between Roy and Mort. Anyone else joining would simply interfere.

Mort pressed the advantage, bringing his blade downwards in a strong, hacking motion. Roy brought up Falchion to catch the blow, but Mort pushed forwards, using his superior strength to force the burned man relentlessly backwards.

“I HAVE KILLED YOU BEFORE,” he shouted, “AND I WILL DO IT AGAIN.”

Roy’s arms gave out. He collapsed backwards, Falchion flying from his hands, skittering across the stones.

Mort loomed above them all.

“DEATH COMES TO YOU ALL,” he announced. “IT HAS HAPPENED AN INFINITE NUMBER OF TIMES. IT WILL HAPPEN AGAIN. IT WILL ALWAYS HAPPEN.”

 

“Nah,” Nowi said, smiling at her.

“I’m sorry I was such a brat,” Nah said. She wasn’t crying - in fact, she felt oddly at peace. She’d get to see her parents again. “I was always so mean to you, so disrespectful…”

Nowi knelt in front of her. Nothing else was there - no bloodthirsty stranger, no raging storm. They were in their own little bubble, a moment in time where things could be peaceful before it popped.

“Nah, I want you to know something,” she said, taking her daughters hands in her own. “I’m sorry that your father and I couldn’t stay in this timeline. There are many where we do, but also many where we do not. But in every single one, across the infinite sky of the multiverse, your father and I are proud of you and love you with all our hearts.”

Nah felt an unexpected moment of clarity wash over her. “I couldn’t have done this,” she said, “any of this, without your help. I’m exactly the person I always needed to be to make it through this. Every bad thing, every heartbreak, every loss...they’re all part of who I am, here in this moment.”

Nowi began to fade before her eyes, still smiling all the while.

“I’m going to live,” Nah said, for her own benefit.

Time resumed. The blade came down towards her, and a shadow began to grow, a strange sound whistling through the air.

“NOWIIIIIIII,” Lucina screamed, as she dropped out of the tree she had been hiding in. Trees were a good place to hide - her friend Nowi had taught her that!

The young princess hit the hostile manakete in the face, and bounced off, landing with a ‘poof’ in the snow.

The manakete stumbled, and in that instant Nah shot her arm out, grabbed the blade from her hand, and slashed.

It was a good, clean cut. Blood splattered onto the snow and onto Nah’s clothes. The manakete grasped at her throat, gurgling in pain and shock, fell to her knees, then collapsed onto her stomach. She twitched for a moment, then she stopped.

Nah looked down in shock, at the blade in her hand, at the blood on her clothes. Then she dropped the weapon, picked up Lucina, and ran for the Feroxi outpost. She did not look back.

 

Roy lay on the ground, weaponless. Gaius and Owain lay in a heap, unconscious. Cherche had retreated with young Gerome, making sure he got to a safe space away from all the fighting.

Mort looked to Gerome, the only one left standing before him. Gerome watched him slowly approach, with no idea what to do, hardly even any idea how he was still standing. He was beaten and bloody and concussed, and Mort hardly seemed to have broken a sweat.

“IT STARTED WITH YOU. IT WILL END WITH YOU,” Mort announced. “I WILL SLAUGHTER YOUR FRIENDS AND YOUR FAMILY. YOU WILL WATCH AS I TEAR THEIR HEARTS OUT. ONLY WHEN YOU HAVE GONE MAD WITH GRIEF WILL I GRANT YOU THE SWEET PEACE OF DEATH.”

Gerome’s eyes were drawn down, to the ground, to Falchion. It had flown away from Roy.

But it had landed in front of Brady.

The prince slowly bent down and picked it up, holding it nervously, as if it might bite him. He was no swordsman. Gerome and his friends had tried to help him train, back in the dead future, but it had never taken. He knew how to heal, not to hurt.

Now he looked at the sword in his hands, then to Mort, then back to the sword.

“IT IS A PITY,” Mort was saying with a smirk. “IN ANOTHER TIME, I THINK YOU WOULD HAVE MADE AN IMPRESSIVE ALLY. YOU ARE STRONG, AND WILLFUL. BUT NOT STRONG ENOUGH, AND WILLFUL TO THE WRONG CAUSES. AH WELL.”

He turned.

Falchion came down, Balmung went up.

The divine blade of the exalts slashed across Mort’s face, cutting into his flesh, ripping into his left eye, sending a stream of blood flying from the mad prince’s face. Mort screamed in agony, but his sword continued to swing upwards.

It hit Brady in the chest, and kept going.

They stood there for what felt to Gerome like an eternity, each still holding onto their blades as they cut into the other.

Mort’s scream of pain rose until it pierced through the night sky, and then, in the exact same display that all had witnessed at the Harvest Festival, an explosion of flame rocked outwards, and Mort was gone.

Somehow Brady still stood there, on the charred stone. He looked to Gerome, and smiled.

“I did it, pal,” he said, and died.

 

“You win,” Anna said, gasping for breath as she fell to her knees. “I yield. I have granted you an honourable fight; I pray that you grant me an honorable death.”

“What? Oh, no, no, we’re not doing that,” Morgan said. “Declare me victor, and I will spare your life!” she said, more loudly, to rile up the crowd and get Anna Prime’s attention.

“Damn, you’re good at this,” Inigo said. “Are you sure this is your first melodramatic fake fight to the death?”

Morgan gave him a sideways smirk, and instantly his blood was set aflame.

“Also, I believe there was talk of an epic makeout session…?” Inigo prompted.

“I definitely just said kiss,” Morgan corrected him. “But…”

They drew together, arms wrapped around each other, love in their eyes, an understanding that they had gone a long way and fought hard to get there, but it was worth it. They were together.

A strange sound like an implosion of air suddenly occurred from behind them.

Anna had gotten up and turned around to face it. “Who are--”

A sword slashed across her torso, nearly cutting her clean in half. She collapsed, dead before she hit the sand.

“Give me the girl,” Mort said, striding forward, half his face covered in blood and gore, the other half stuck in a terrifyingly insane grin.

“Wh-what?” Inigo asked, defensively standing in front of Morgan.

Mort did not ask a second time. He slashed once again, and Kellam was there, between the sword and his son. Balmung pierced into his armour, but got stuck. Kellam stumbled backwards from the blow, and Inigo fell back with him.

Mort reached out and grabbed Morgan’s wrist.

“What--” she began.

They disappeared.

“I’m okay,” Kellam said, gingerly touching the hilt of the sword that was jutting out of him. “My armour stopped the blow. I’m okay.”

“Father,” Inigo said, hugging him. “Thank you, I...I would have died…”

The reality of what had just happened began to sink in.

“Morgan!” he shouted, jumping to his feet. The Anna’s were in a tizzy, wondering what had just happened, who that disfigured madman had been, where he had gone.

“MORGAN!” Inigo cried, a primal, guttural cry that echoed through the night. In it was an unspoken promise: I will find you, Mort, and if you hurt her, I will kill you.

 

Gerome’s senses began to come back to him as Lissa hit him with her healing magic. She was one healer among many, rushing around the city like chickens with their heads cut off. Many were dead, many more injured, and there were far too few to tend to them all.

But the revolution was over. The Ylisseans had won.

Gaius was up and about again. He had Severa and Libra with him, both freed from captivity, and they were binding Joab, Wulf, and the surviving Plegian officers to place into captivity until Chrom returned.

There was too much to do. There was no time to stop and think about the heartbreak, about the loss.

Gerome numbly gave his thanks to Lissa, who rushed off to tend to the next person. He looked to the spot where Brady had fallen.

The body was gone.

He stood up, and looked around. So much of what had happened simply hadn’t made sense. Mort’s rantings about Grima, Roy’s usage of Falchion…

Suddenly, it all clicked. Maybe it did make sense.

There, on the edge of the crowd, heading towards the gate. Roy, with Brady cradled gently in his arms.

Her arms.

“Lucina,” he said, and followed.


	12. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan makes a choice. Morgan makes a choice.

Chapter 11  
Time - ???  
Place - ???

Morgan woke up.

 

Morgan woke up.

 

Their eyes fluttered open. It was very dark in here - or out here - or wherever they were. But they could make out a figure standing before them.

“Father..?” they mumbled. That didn’t make any sense. Their father was…

“Yes, my child. It’s me.” Robin stepped closer, garbed in their hooded black cloak, messy white hair draped around them. He reached out a soft, pale hand, and stroked the forehead of his child.

Morgan looked up at them, a mixture of comfort and fear on their face. This was their father, but something was wrong.

“Father, what happened to you?” they asked, and only then did they realize they were in great physical pain. “Augh! And...what happened to me..?”

“You were injured,” Robin said, his voice soft, drawn out, more of a hiss than a whisper. “Your friends left you for dead.”

Morgan winced. “What? They...they would never…”

“You will live,” Robin insisted. “You are strong. Good breeding. But perhaps…” he eyed his child curiously, cold fingers dancing across their face. “I will infuse you with some of my power. It will allow you to fight on, even if your body is too weak to carry you.”

Morgan tried to struggle, but couldn’t find the strength to pull away. “No, dad, I’m fine, I…”

Something washed over them.

“How do you feel?” asked the voice of their father, and it was all around them, and inside their head, bouncing off the walls, consuming them, drowning out all other sounds, all other thoughts…

 

Morgan resisted.

Morgan rolled over, away from their father, or whoever it was that was wearing their skin. They didn’t realize that they had apparently been on an elevated slab, and as such, crashed to the ground, their body further erupting in pain.

“Do not fight it!” Robin shouted, his voice splitting their head. “Your friends left you! They seek to kill me, to kill us both, because they fear us! Fear our power!”

Morgan stretched their arms out and pulled themselves forward, dragging across the cold stone floor on their stomach. They moved at a snail’s pace, and where were they even going? They didn’t know where they were.

A booted foot gently landed on their lower back, pinning them in place. “Stop this at once, Morgan,” Robin chided, his usual fatherly respect tainted by a dark, irresistable will. This was a man who would not be denied.

Morgan ceased struggling, but still felt disgusting. “What did you do to me? I feel so angry. Like I want to hurt...and kill...and…”

“That is my gift,” Robin said, as he bent down to help Morgan to their feet. “When the body has been weakened, the mind can still push it to extraordinary lengths. You need motivation, however. My hatred...my will...that will push you forward, drive you to keep clinging to life regardless of the punishment the Ylissean traitors that you once called friends will try to deal you.”

Morgan, hand still in his, looked deep into the eyes of their father.

“They’re still my friends,” Morgan whispered. “I don’t...want to feel this way towards them...this desire to make them suffer, to make them pay...it...it isn’t me!”

“It is you,” Robin responded, staring back. His eyes were cold, dead, looking through Morgan rather than at them. “It is both of us. Who we are, who we were always meant to be. I am your father.” He smiled, and while it wasn’t a warm smile, Morgan had missed it so very, very much… “Don’t you want to stay with me, my daughter?”

 

Morgan accepted.

Morgan sat up, and shook their head. “I...what is this? Why do I feel this way…”

“It is the power of my hatred,” Robin answered. “It will bolster your own, feed into it, expand it. It will allow you to fight back against the injustices that have befallen you, and allow you to claim the glory that is rightfully yours by birth.”

Morgan nodded, slowly, understanding beginning to wash over them. “It feels...right. I’ve always been an outsider, compared to the others, and...for it to be because of this greatness…”

“Yes!” Robin agreed. “I admit, I worried there would be a...struggle. Accepting such power all at once, becoming attuned to one’s destiny, can be quite a shock.”

Morgan shook their head. “No, I’ve always suspected. The way the others treated me...and leaving me for dead...I...I want to make them pay. To show them I am the true leader. Not some snooty princess or her doting friends.”

Robin watched his child, beaming with pride. He had, truly, expected more of a fight. To have to cajole and coerce. But Morgan...already seemed to have a good deal of hatred in their heart, ready to go at just the slightest push…

The tactician drew a blade, long and elegant and resonating with power. He held it out towards his child.

“That snooty princess and her doting friends are a threat, to me, to us. They plot to destroy us even now. That accursed blade the princess holds makes it...difficult for me to approach. But you, my child…”

Morgan took Balmung, held it reverently. “I will not fail you, father.”

Robin smiled. “I know you will not...my son.”

 

A battle raged inside Morgan as she wandered the empty, dead streets of Ylisstol, towards the castle, where her friends...no, targets!...were gathering.

They don’t care about you. They never did!

That’s not true. They’ve always been there for you. If they left you for dead, it must have been...some kind of mistake, some mix-up…

They are careless and weak! They do not deserve to cling to your glory any longer.

She looked down at the blade in her hand.

“They deserve this fate,” she said, but it felt like someone else’s voice, coming from far away. “The weak live to feed the strong. The mouse has no right to pretend it is the equal of the dragon!”

Perhaps there was some truth in that. She had always been strong for her size, and talented with a blade. She was not quite as good as Lucina, but most of the others - Inigo, Owain, Severa - had fallen to her in friendly duels. She could defeat them again. She could k-kill...kill…

Her brain recoiled. No! This...isn’t...me!

“It is you,” she hissed aloud. “It’s always been you. You can’t hide from it, you can’t run from it...you are always you!”

“...Morgan!”

She turned towards the voice. It was Brady, Prince of Ylisse.

Perfect! The voice reverberated through her and she had to fight to keep her mouth shut, to keep the voice internal. He is the weakest of the bunch, barely competent at all. His survival thus far is a total fluke. He will be easy to strike down, and if you were to bring his head to Lucina, she would surely be demoralized by the death of her last remaining relative…

“Morgan? You okay? We thought you bought the farm!” Brady had reached her now, healing staff in hand, ready to heal her of any injuries she had sustained, but with irritation overcoming her she swatted it away.

“Whoa there, Morg! Down girl! You...you don’t look so good,” he said, eyeing her with genuine worry and concern. His sympathy served to anger Morgan further.

“Stay away from me, fool!” she spat, and this time it was her own voice, her own words. If she could just scare him away…

“No way,” the prince replied. “We may have gotten separated but we ain’t givin’ up! We’ll make it back to the castle, and Lucina will know what to do, and--”

“Lucina will die!” Morgan shouted, and this time she couldn’t tell if it was her own voice or the voice of that...thing...her father had given her. Perhaps there wasn’t any difference. “Grima will not be stopped, and all who attempt to stand in his way will perish!”

“Are you crazy!?” Brady responded. “Lucina’s the toughest of all of us! She ain’t never checkin’ outta the hotel of life, OR into the hotel of death!” He paused. “I mean, I guess probably from old age at some point, but--”

“Enough!” Morgan snapped. She drew her blade and stepped forward. Brady reflexively stepped backwards away from her.

Her father’s hatred, his will...that was what he said he had given her. But what if it was simply her own that had been awakened? What if it had always been there, just waiting for an excuse? She couldn’t seem to stop it now...what if that was because she didn’t want to?

“This ain’t you, Morgan,” Brady whispered, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his healing staff in fear. “Just...just put the blade down and come with me…”

She did the opposite. She lifted the blade, ready to strike. She was a good swordsman, and she was close enough that any slash could kill him instantly. There was no way she could miss. It was time to accept her destiny.

Her body spasmed, and for a moment she thought this was another force outside of her control. But it was the only part of her - the REAL her - that was still in control.

Her sword slashed too wide, allowing Brady to jump backwards. In a panic, he lashed out with his staff.

He wasn’t a skilled fighter, but he was big and bulky and capable of putting a lot of force behind his swing. The staff cracked Morgan over the head, and she collapsed onto the pavement.

“Pathetic,” the voice hissed, but there was fear in it. Something in Morgan had fought back, gained a foothold, and pushed through. The hatred was not welcome here. And thus...as Morgan drifted away into fitful unconsciousness...it fled...searching for another host...for there are always hearts willing to accept hatred with open arms…

 

Morgan whistled as he walked.

He had always known something was different about him. He had seen the way the others had looked at him, as an outsider, as an other.

From most of them, he understood it. He had never been flirtatious like Inigo, dramatic like Owain, playful like Nah. He could never quite envision himself fitting in with their antics.

But from one of them, it hurt. Lucina was the only one who could match him when they practiced their swordplay. She was stern and serious like him, tried to live up to the royal blood in her veins. She knew she was destined for greatness, just as he knew he was. If anyone should have understood him, empathized with him, connected with him, it should have been her…

And yet she continued to waste time on the others, to play along, to treat them as equals despite her obvious superiority. She had even had the gall to spurn his romantic advances for that thug, Gerome! The man’s father had been a farmhand, for Grima’s sake. His blood was as common as mud!

“...Morgan!”

He turned towards the voice. It was Brady, Prince of Ylisse.

“Perfect,” he said, and the voice was one he had known a long time.

“Morgan? You okay? We thought you were pushin’ up daisies!” Brady had reached him now, healing staff in hand, ready to heal him of any injuries he had sustained.

“No, Brady, I’m fine,” he responded, keeping his voice soft and calm. “What happened to you and the others? Why did you leave me?”

Brady looked taken aback for a moment. “Leave you? Nah, pal, we got separated! I’ve just been hiding out here hoping someone would come by, so boy, you are a sight for sore eyes.”

Morgan watched Brady suspiciously. “Okay,” he said, slowly, softly. “I’m afraid I’m utterly disoriented and don’t remember how to get back to the castle. Can you lead the way?”

Brady nodded. “Yeah, sure, Morg. Y’know, you really don’t look so good. I hope you ain’t got, uh, Risen Flu or anything,” he said, clearly babbling to mask his discomfort. Nobody liked being alone with Morgan for long, even in life or death situations like this. “Hah, that’s probably not a real thing. But, sheesh, can you imagine if it were? Talk about nasty.”

Morgan followed him, watching his back. He looked down at the sword in his hand, the one his father had given him.

 

Some time later, he walked into the throne room of Ylisstol Castle. Lucina was there, upon her charred and worthless throne. Scattered around her stood her friends...no, her lackeys. She used them to achieve her goals, just as Morgan did. She merely pretended to be above it all.

“Morgan! You’re alive!” Inigo said with a gasp.

“Gods be good!” Owain exclaimed. “When you and Brady got separated, we thought…”

Morgan removed his pack, opened it, and pulled something out.

“Brady is dead,” he said, tossing the severed head of the prince towards the throne. There were assembled gasps and worried mutterings. Lucina stood up and walked forward hesitantly to get a closer look. She blanched upon confirming it was her brother.

“What the hell, Morgan!?” Severa snapped. “What is wrong with you? Why would you…”

Morgan drew his blade.

“Some of you understand,” he said, slowly, looking across at everyone in the group. “You know that there is no hope. That we cannot change fate. Grima has won, and to struggle against that is to die, pointlessly.”

He took a step towards Lucina.

“True strength lies in facing our destiny head on, and owning it! Not lying to ourselves and running away from reality! Grima owns this world. He’ll own all worlds! But we can thrive if we choose to serve him!”

Lucina drew Falchion as they approached each other.

“Morgan,” she said slowly, sizing him up, “I value you as a friend and comrade. But if you killed my brother...I swear by all the Gods…”

Morgan lunged at her, but before they clashed, Gerome was upon him, pushing him backwards, forsaking his axe in favour of his fists, pummeling for daring to threaten his princess or her family.

Gerome was the larger man, fiercer, more muscular, but Morgan had been upgraded by Grima’s gift. He fell back briefly, then retaliated with a flurry of his own. He bashed Gerome in the head so hard his mask flew off as he collapsed to the ground.

Then Lucina was on him as well, Falchion slashing through the air, but Morgan met it gladly, relishing an actual challenge. If anyone was going to give it to him, it was her - but even a lifetime of fighting Risen couldn’t save her.

He had left Gerome alive, because he could still prove useful. But Lucina’s blood was tainted by the divine dragon. As soon as Morgan saw an opening, he took it, and plunged Balmung deep into her breast.

Screams erupted around him.

“Witness the power Grima has given me!” he shouted, as Lucina died before him, her body going limp and sliding off the end of his blade. “You have two choices now! Join me, or die!”

“You BASTARD!” Severa screamed. “We’ll never join Grima, or you, you murdering CREEP!”

She was rushing towards him, and Morgan readied himself to meet her…

A blast of flame erupted from behind. Severa was lifted off her feet and collapsed in front of him, badly wounded.

Nah stepped forward, looking at Morgan. “You can give me power like yours?” she asked.

Morgan grinned. “Yes. You’ve made the right choice. I do not want to kill any more of you! Choose wisely as Nah has, and live with me as a beloved agent of Grima!”

He stepped towards Severa, twitching on the floor, and drove his sword through her spine. 

Then he turned and approached Inigo and Owain, standing side by side, paralyzed with fear and uncertainty.

“Unfortunately,” Morgan said, “Ylissean royalty need not apply. All trace of Naga’s blood must be bled out.”

With one swift motion, he slit Owain’s throat, and the final heir of the Exalt’s line collapsed to the cold, stone floor.

“Please don’t kill me,” Inigo whispered, holding up his hands. “Gods forgive me, but...I accept your offer. I don’t want to die.”

Morgan smiled, and moved to clap Inigo on the shoulder. He winced away at first, then relaxed and nodded.

“You do Grima proud, my friend,” he said. “I know it is hard to accept, to understand, but now you will at least live long enough to appreciate your decision.”

“What of him?” Nah asked, nodding down to Gerome, still unconscious on the floor. “You killed Lucina. He’s not likely to let that go…”

Morgan shrugged, looking entirely unconcerned. “Tie him up. There is much rage inside him. Though it will be directed at me for a time, it can be...diverted elsewhere. He will break.”

 

Over time, they all broke.

There was no one else. Four of them left alive, in a charred and decaying world. The Risen left them alone, and they rarely saw Grima. Morgan made Ylisstol Castle his home, setting up in the lavish bedroom of the Exalts, decorated with whatever he wanted, as the whole world was his to pillage.

Inigo was the first to go utterly mad. He had never had a lust for power, or vengeance, or anything of the sort, and as such the rewards Grima offered were little comfort to make up for the fact that he had betrayed all he once fought for.

Nah was the only woman left in the world, and she was firmly disinterested in his advances. Soon Inigo was wandering far and wide, searching the countryside for any diversion or pleasure he might stumble across. He let his health go; his hair became long and greasy, his teeth yellow and misshapen. He began to find hilarity in the strangest things, cackling obnoxiously at jokes no one else found the slightest bit funny.

Nah enjoyed her power for a time. She, too, felt guilt at the death of her friends, at the failure of their goals...but she remained stoic and pragmatic. It had to be this way. What would have been the point if she had died on Morgan’s blade? At least now she could study the mysteries of the world in peace, enter any library she wished, experiment to her heart’s content…

Gerome did break, though he resisted. For years he remained in captivity, exercising, working his muscles, pushing each and every one beyond the breaking point. He would punch the stone walls of his cell until his knuckles were bloody, and the next morning do it all over again. But Morgan wore him down. In time Gerome grew to understand strength as the dividing force beyond all else. Morgan was stronger, Lucina was weaker. It was pointless to bemoan the natural order of things.

All of them changed. They had made a choice: live, or die. They had chosen life, at the cost of humanity.

 

And thus the river of time split in two. In fact, it split more than that, many times, too many times to count - an infinite number of timelines to represent an infinite number of possibilities. And yet these two would become interwoven, destined to intersect and clash together.

In one, the malignant influence of Grima was unable to fully take hold of Morgan. It would be impossible to know why, exactly. Perhaps something in her DNA made her more resilient, perhaps small moments with her friends made her more loving, perhaps it was simply fate. This Morgan - these Morgans - travelled back in time, changed the course of history, and saved the world.

But not always.

The other Morgan succumbed, for reasons equally impossible to fully understand. Through either a quirk of genetics, or the slow build-up of many small, unique events in his timeline, he was willing to accept that his lifetime companions were not truly his friends. That strength was better than love. That hatred led to strength.

Every choice made by every person is but a pebble in the river of time. Alone, it is inconsequential. But each pebble causes a ripple, and the size and shape of the pebble changes the ripple, changes how it clashes with other ripples, and soon the pattern spreading out across the river is one entirely unique.

And then awoke Grima, who sought to build a dam, which would dry up every river of every timeline of every universe. Forever.

 

Morgan returned from a long journey across Ylisse, entered his castle, and found Grima sitting upon his throne.

“My son,” he said. “You have been doing well.” It wasn’t a question.

Morgan looked past the hooded figure of his father, up at the wall behind him. Something was there, a grand device...circular and pulsating, emitting some kind of energy…

“What is that thing?” Morgan asked.

“Ahh, no time for pleasantries? So be it.” Grima stood, and glided gently down the steps to stand before his son. “This device I have constructed for you is an Outrealm Gate. It serves a similar purpose to the ritual of Awakening that Lucina was foolishly attempting. It will allow you to travel, not just back in time...but to ANY time. Any dimension, parallel to our own, of which there are nearly limitless.” He paused, and grinned his unsettling grin. “Nearly. But not entirely, despite what some believe.”

“Other worlds...you mean, ones with other people? Where not everyone is…” Morgan began, momentarily taken aback. He hadn’t thought of Lucina in a long time, and his father casually referencing her shook him.

“Killed by us? Correct. There are many timelines where things played out exactly as they were fated to. We succeeded. All fell before us, and the world became ours to do with as we pleased. But others…” now his grin changed to a scowl, and he looked as if he may lash out in irritation. Morgan nearly recoiled.

“There are worlds where we failed,” Morgan guessed. “Somehow, the two of us were defeated--”

“No,” his father said harshly, interrupting him. “In these worlds, I was defeated. But not you. Not always…”

He turned towards the Outrealm Gate and waved his arms. The energy within it rippled, and like a magical mirror, forms started to appear within it. Morgan watched in confusion as he saw Lucina sitting and laughing, surrounded by her friends, Severa, Owain, Gerome, Brady...and...a girl…

“She looks...just like me!” Morgan gasped.

“Yes,” Grima responded. “She is you. In some worlds, I beget a daughter rather than a son. It matters not. What matters is that this one chose to defy me, and aid Lucina in her mad quest to see me defeated. You see them here after they think they have won.”

“They...think it? So the you of that world is still alive, just hiding? Ready to strike again at any moment?” Morgan asked.

Grima appeared filled with rage for a moment, but calmed himself before responding. “That is the wrong question to ask. I am not like you, or any of your friends. I am simply me. I always exist. So long as I am here in this world, I am destined to be there in that one.” He waved his hand again, and the image on the screen shifted. 

“I need you to be my agent,” Grima explained. “To go there and pave the way for my return. There are still loyal Grimleal in Plegia, and you will have Risen of mine to bring with you, to prove you bare my blessing.”

Morgan saw himself, at the head of an army of Risen, marching upon an Ylisstol that was bustling and full of life…

He grinned. Finally, something to do. The others were going to love this…

 

(( AUTHOR’S NOTE: For maximum effect, play this video for remainder of chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n4zU0eqCUG4&list=PL58D398750F1219D8&index=66 ))

 

Morgan woke up.

Something was wrong.

“Where…” she asked, but her throat was too dry for her to finish her thought. She felt sick, and rolled over to vomit off the side of the bed she had been placed on.

“You awaken. Good. Welcome home.”

She wiped her mouth clean and rolled back around to see Mort. He was sitting in a chair across the room from her bed, sharpening a sword. Half of his head was covered in heavy gauze bandages, with fresh blood still dripping down his face.

“Joab’s big oaf of a father took my sword, but that’s okay. Nothing a little elbow grease can’t replace…” he was saying, furiously rubbing a grindstone against a blade.

“What...Mort…Where…”

Mort stood up and walked over to a curtain on the wall. He tore it aside, and Morgan saw…

...Nothing. No clouds, no sun, no other buildings. Just void.

“We’re in my world for the moment,” Mort explained. “There’s been a bit of a setback. I had to retreat and recuperate, but we’ll be heading back soon. I don’t like to leave unfinished business.”

Morgan clutched her head, straining to remember. “I...was with Inigo, and then…”

“Him! I mean, really, of all the men to grow attached to. Quite nauseating.” Mort made an exaggerated face, but then chuckled. “Ah, well, can’t dwell on these things. Perhaps you’d find the idea of my once infatuation with Lucina equally unsettling.”

Morgan shook her head. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

Mort growled, and kicked the chair he had been sitting in over to her, before throwing himself back into it. He was very close now. She could smell the blood.

“Tell me who I am, Morgan,” he instructed.

Morgan gulped. She had known this conversation was coming, eventually...Mort had clearly hunted her down specifically…

“We’re related,” she said. “We have the same mother, though you were conceived when she was brainwashed by Grima. My father saved her, and…”

“Hah! You’re wrong on so many counts,” Mort replied. “It was after she left to join the tactician Robin and his army that she became brainwashed. And it was also at that time that I was conceived.”

Morgan shook her head again. “That doesn’t make any sense. What is wrong with the air here? Where ARE we?”

Mort sighed. “I told you. My world. Do try to keep up.” The Mad Prince stood up and began to pace across the room. “Your mother is Aversa and your father is Robin. My mother is Aversa and my father...is also Robin.”

“No,” Morgan said. “That’s not possible, I don’t have a brother…”

“Finally! You said something correct.” Mort rushed over to her, knocked her backwards, stuffed his face into hers, his one remaining eye wide and beady. “My name isn’t Mort,” he said, starting to giggle. “Do you know my name?”

“No…” Morgan whimpered. “No, I...no, you can’t…”

“My name,” he said, “IS MORGAN.”

In an instant he had drawn a blade, and levelled it with Morgan’s face.

“THE Morgan,” he continued. “From the original timeline. The true one. Where Grima won, as he was meant to. You are a copy of me. Like me, but...worse. Unofficial. A redundancy.”

“And now you’re going to kill me,” she whispered, trying to keep a brave face.

“What? No!” Mort - Morgan - said with a laugh. “I need you. You’re no me, but you still have a very important role to play in all this.”

Morgan exhaled slightly. There was a chance. Inigo would find her, and--

“I can’t go around less whole than you, though, seeing as how I’m the Alpha Morgan,” he continued, “so I’m going to need to remove your eye.”

The blade struck, and Morgan screamed.


	13. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucina's tale.

Chapter 12

Time - Early Evening, Harvest Festival, 4 years after the fall of Grima

Place - Border of Plegia, west of Ylisstol

 

The valley is peaceful and my friends are having fun.

Lucina looked around at the Harvest Festival grounds. So far everything was going well. The people of Ylisstol were drinking, feasting, and spending coin. It had taken a while after the war for people to feel like they could let loose and enjoy themselves, but it seemed many had finally gotten there.

The people of Plegia were a good deal more reserved, and in fairness, the Ylisseans were treating them rather cooly. This event had been planned specifically to help the two people reconcile, but while no fighting was breaking out, nobody was really mingling across country lines.

She gulped. She was procrastinating. She had gone to amend that; she had gone to find Mort, the new Plegian Prince, and...mingle. She felt horrible to admit it, but she was letting prejudice get to her as well. The Prince’s father had been a lunatic determined to kill her father and conquer her country. She knew that meant nothing. His son by no means had to be the same. But...she couldn’t shake the distrust…

There was no helping it. The circle of hatred between Ylisstol and Plegia had to end sometime. Perhaps it could end here, now, with her.

She saw Mort in the crowd, flanked by his two lackeys...er, friends! Lucina corrected herself. Just because they were...incredibly sketchy looking...didn’t mean they weren’t as friendly as any Ylisseans.

Why, they’re probably just like Gerome and Inigo, she thought.

She began to slowly walk towards them. She attempted to quell her nervousness by looking around for Gerome. She hadn’t really seen him since the party started. No doubt he was one of the few guards remaining stoic in the face of overwhelming levity.

She wished he was here with her now. Even if he said nothing, just knowing he was nearby to watch over her always made her feel...safe.

When she reached Mort, the young Prince looked up at her like a wounded deer ready to be put down. He tried to smile, but it was just...sad. The two men with him shuffled a bit closer, giving Lucina distrustful glances.

“Ho there! I’m here as a friend,” Lucina yelped, rather awkwardly loud. For all her royal upbringing, she had never been the most social butterfly.

“...Calm, Wulf, Joab,” Mort said, slowly raising an arm to push the other two Plegians back a step. He stood up from his seat and stepped forwards towards Lucina, his eyes wide and fearful.

Something else was in those eyes, other than fear, but Lucina couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was.

“I-I’m Mort,” he stuttered nervously, making Lucina feel calm and collected by comparison. “I’m the, uhm...prince of Plegia. It’s...l-lovely to meet you!” He hesitantly reached out a hand to grasp hers and rather limply brought it up to his lips to kiss the back of her hand, as princes often did.

Lucina smiled back, weakly. This was...pathetic. Perhaps having a madman like Gangrel as a father had whipped the spirit out of him.

She looked behind him. The one called Joab was grinning, while the one called Wulf...glared at her with a hatred more intense than she had felt in a long time.

“It’s lovely to meet you as well,” Lucina answered, turning her eyes back on the prince. “I am but a simple knight from Ylisse. My name is--”

“Would you like to join me for a walk?” Mort asked, very suddenly. He turned to glare at his two companions and added, “alone?”

Surprise registered on Lucina’s face for only a moment before she composed herself. “Certainly,” she answered, as politely as she could. Come on, princess training, don’t let me down…

She could feel Wulf’s glare boring into the back of her skull as she followed Mort to the edge of the vale. The constant din of celebrating voices was softer here, and one could actually feel like they were outside, enjoying nature.

“So…” Lucina said, awkwardly. She clasped her hands together, awkwardly. She was probably breathing awkwardly.

“...I can’t do this,” Mort said, so softly she could barely hear him.

“What?” Lucina asked, taken off guard. “Can’t do what?”

“Lucina,” Mort said, turning to her and grasping both her hands. Lucina drew back slightly, and something in the back of her mind reminded her that she had not yet told the prince her name. “I had a plan for tonight. But seeing you again, I just...it has brought back so many memories. I don’t know if I can go through with it…”

“I’m sorry, have we met before..?” Lucina asked, straining her memory for any recollection. There was something about the young man that looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. And she was quite certain she had never known Gangrel to have a son, either in her original timeline or this new one.

“In a matter of speaking,” Mort answered. Somewhere in the trees, a bird was making a shrill mating call. An evening breeze picked up and Lucina shivered. “You wouldn’t know me as Mort, though. I...you really don’t recognize me?”

Lucina shook her head. “I’m sorry. I really don’t.”

Mort sighed. “In the future...my future...you didn’t make it back. You died, and...it was my fault. Grima infused me with...hatred. Such hatred. I was blinded by it, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t feel anything but rage. I wanted to hurt and to kill, and...I did. Even those I loved. And the hatred was so strong, I didn’t even think to feel remorse. Not until I saw you again, tonight. But when I laid eyes upon you, for the first time in so many years, I realized what a grave mistake I had made.”

Lucina hurriedly took a step back. “You...you’re from the future? But...how..?”

“Not THE future,” Mort explained. “A future. My friends and I did exactly what you did, only from a different starting point. Now that we’ve all ended up here, together again, it feels like...fate? No, what was it father would say...the ties that bind us, drawing us together…”

Suddenly it all clicked. That phrase, the story, the subtly familiar facial features. “Robin used to say that,” Lucina whispered. “You’re...Morgan?”

Morgan smiled. “I’ve missed you so much, Lucina. But we can fix everything, together. Make up for so much lost time. I...I…”

He stepped forward and kissed her on the mouth. Her eyes widened, and she instinctively shoved him away from her.

“I-I don’t know what kind of relationship you and I...you and HER had, but I’m not her!” she snapped, blushing furiously. “You can’t just expect me to fit into her shoes when I have none of her memories, her experiences…”

“But it IS you,” Morgan said, looking and sounding clearly confused. “We were destined to be together. We have to be. I have a second chance now. I can’t...I won’t let you get away again.”

“Morgan,” she said, softly, trying to calm herself and be reasonable. “I’m happy that our ties brought us together again. But destiny can be changed. We changed it by defeating Grima. You have to move on from this...idea you have of me.”

Morgan watched her for a moment, silently. The light that had been in his eyes, the excitement and hope, was draining, and in it’s place was an unsettling darkness.

“You’re so wrong, Lucina,” he said, softly. “I wish so much that you weren’t, but you are. Our destinies can’t be changed. The details may shift, but the end result will always be the same. You didn’t defeat Grima. He’s still out there...and he’s coming.”

All other thoughts and questions immediately left her mind. With single minded focus, Lucina looked at Morgan. “What do you mean?” she asked, sternly. “What do you know?”

Morgan was silent for a moment. Everything seemed to have fallen silent. Evening had given way to night, and an eerie stillness fell over the vale. Lucina’s hand want to the hilt of the plain steel sword she wore at her hip; she kept Falchion hidden back home in Ylisstol so as not to run into uncomfortable questions. Suddenly she really wished she had it on her.

“Alright,” Morgan said, softly, exhaling deeply, as if letting a great weight off his shoulders. “I’ll explain to you, and all your friends. We’ll head back to the Festival, and...and I’ll tell you all I know.”

Lucina tried to relax herself. There was no way Grima was still out there. They had sacrificed so much to defeat him, to kill him once and for all. Laurent, Noire, Kjelle, Nowi, Henry, Robin...And it had WORKED. She had certainly had her doubts that it would, but it had. Grima was gone. Mort - this Morgan - must be mistaken.

Morgan led her back to where his friends were waiting. The big, muscular thug and the perpetually grinning weirdo. She gazed at them now, long and hard. A brow here, a cheekbone there...their appearances were clearly altered, but…

Gerome and Inigo. Good Gods, what had happened to them?

They stepped forward as Lucina and Morgan approached, quickly flanking them. Lucina turned to look for her Gerome, her Inigo, her Morgan, and all the others, but...suddenly turning her head was very difficult.

“I’m sorry, Lucina,” Morgan was saying. She could feel the magic emanating off of him, washing over her, freezing her in place. “I had thought this time could be different. I had thought you might be convinced to be with me. It was a long shot, but...worth a try, I suppose. But...alas.”

Morgan - no, Lucina thought furiously, this wasn’t Morgan, not any Morgan she knew - Mort turned to face the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he called out, so loud and commanding that a hush rippled outwards across the entire festival. Most of those still attending had gathered near the center of the field already, eagerly awaiting the fireworks display, and now what few scragglers were left on the outskirts were heading there as well.

“I would like to thank you all so very much for attending this event!” he continued. Lucina could only move her eyes, and they darted furiously around her frozen sockets, trying to seek out her friends, to give some sort of warning, to formulate some kind of plan.

“As most of you know, I am Mort, son of Gangrel, and King of Plegia,” Mort called out over the attentive crowd. “But this night is not about me or my country. It is, in many ways, about our neighbor Ylisse. And we have had a tumultuous history, I know.”

Lucina mustered her willpower and tried to move her had towards her sword. If she could break free, she could subdue Mort, and figure out what he was planning. She had fought Grimleal who used this kind of magic before. Mort, however, appeared particularly skilled at it. No matter how much she strained, she could not budge.

“As such, before we begin the main event of the night, I would like to welcome a special guest from Ylisse,” Mort went on. “Now, Exalt Chrom could not be here, sadly, but someone no less important did manage to make it.”

Lucina saw out of her peripheral vision as Gerome’s father stood up, proudly saluting the crowd and preparing to go stand by Mort’s side. Donnel had only made it a few steps, however, when Mort continued, apparently ignoring him.

“It is none other than the princess of Ylisse, Lucina.”

There! Off in the back of the crowd, she could just barely make out Inigo, Morgan, and Gerome.

She had been frozen in a position of poise and dignity, back straight and chin held high. She hoped her friends would know her well enough, however, to recognize the distress on her face.

“Yes, after many years of strained relations, the royal children of these two great kingdoms are united at last!” Mort continued. “I have long dreamt of this moment. A new age is beginning for all in this realm!”

Lucina heard the sounds of combat starting to rise from all around them. The clash of metal, the puncture of chainmail, the screams cut off as quickly as they began.

From so far away, she heard Gerome yell, “It’s a trap! We have to--”

“And now,” Mort yelled, his voice carrying effortlessly over the chaos, “I believe you were all promised a fireworks show!”

He snapped his fingers.

Lucina felt heat bearing down on her…

 

Lucina woke up.

Something was wrong.

Her hand darted to her sword, which, unsurprisingly, was missing.

Her body was wracked with pain, as if she were covered in a giant, bad sunburn. She pushed herself upright, stumbled a moment, but managed to keep her balance and stay on her feet. Only as she stood upright did she notice something was missing. She couldn’t feel her long hair landing against her shoulders. She reached a shaking hand up and felt ragged, charred blue strands falling away.

She suddenly felt dizzy, and worried she was going to faceplant onto the cold stone floor of...wherever she was.

“It’s an interesting look. Can’t say I’m the biggest fan, but hey. Change is good.”

Bent slightly, trying not to vomit, Lucina turned and saw Mort. He was sitting upon a throne, and that’s when it suddenly hit her. She knew where this was.

Ylisstol Castle. Where she had been born and raised, where she had fought and killed, gone back and time and served in again. She knew this castle better than anywhere in the world. But it was all wrong. It felt evil. It hadn’t even felt like this in her original, doomed timeline.

Mort stretched like a giant cat, then stood up and began to stroll, slowly, down the stairs. He walked like he owned the place.

“Don’t worry, the disorientation will pass soon. My means of hopping worlds is a bit less...refined than the divine ritual that brought you back in time. Naga prefers the rapier, as it were, while Grima prefers the sledgehammer.”

Lucina looked up at him, her eyes filled with hatred. She had to pull it together. She straightened her back, lifted her chin, met his eyes. “You did this,” she said, softly. “You destroyed this world, didn’t you?”

“Oh, I can’t take all the credit,” Mort said. He pulled out a blade - the sword Lucina had been carrying. He tossed it back and forth between his hands, gazing at her with wide, playful eyes. “Grima did most of the work. I just gave events a little...push. He’ll be here soon, by the way. He’s just dying to meet you.”

Lucina glanced around. She knew the layout of this castle well. She had to find an opportunity, make a break for it...if Grima got hold of her…

“I’m not going to let him kill you,” Mort said, as if reading her mind. “This world, it...does things to you. Gets into your head, drive you a little bit mad. It happened to everyone. You know, when I killed you - the you of my world, obviously - Gerome vowed to see me dead. For years he insisted that the first chance he got, he would wring my neck. Now? He’s a little puppy. If I told him I needed a kidney, he’d cut his own out and hand it to me.”

Lucina felt herself quivering with rage. Gerome didn’t deserve such a fate. No Gerome in all the multiverse did.

“It’ll break you, too, in time,” Mort continued, stepping a little bit closer, leering at her, grinning like a cocky bastard. “I would never dream of taking you by force, but after a few years of confinement, with nothing but the intoxicating scent of Grima’s power filling the air, you’ll be begging me for a chance to rule by my side...it would be cruel to deny you, in fact…”

That was the line, apparently. Lucina thrust her head forwards, and her forehead connected with Mort’s nose, cracking it and sending him backwards. She felt warm, wet blood drip down her forehead. The sword went flying from his grasp.

“You can’t run!” Mort yelled, more laughter than pain in his voice. “Grima is everywhere. He’ll find you!”

Lucina darted past him towards the sword. As she grabbed it, she felt another blast of fire hit her from behind, lift her off her feet, and send hurt tumbling towards the stairs leading up to the throne.

“You’re a tough nut to crack, Lucina! That’s something I’ve always liked about you!” she heard Mort shout. Everything hurt, and the unnatural air here made her feel like she was trying to breathe in while buried in sand. But she got to her feet and ran up the stairs, seeking the high ground by the throne.

A light flickered. It was strange enough to momentarily shake her out of her concentration, and she looked away from Mort.

The wall behind the throne...she hadn’t fully comprehended before, but it was one of the things that felt so wrong and different about this place. It wasn’t a wall anymore. Whatever it was, it felt...alive. And it was reacting to her.

“...What are you doing?” Mort asked, and his voice betrayed the same confusion that Lucina felt. “Get away from that!”

The flickering light was expanding. Shapes and shadows that she couldn’t quite make out were swirling. Voices she could almost hear were whispering to her.

Mort was running up the stairs.

Lucina feigned ignorance, staring at the...the word ‘gate’ came to mind, though she couldn’t say why...and ignoring the rapidly approaching Mort, until she could feel him practically on top of her, and then she spun. Mort leapt backwards, dodging the edge of her blade, but the sharp movement caused him to lose his balance, and he went tumbling back down the stone steps.

Without wasting another moment, Lucina ran forward--

 

\--and hit the mud.

It was raining, and it smelled of death. Slowly, she pushed herself up, and spat out a mouthful of soil. She was exactly where she had left, but it looked as if hours had passed. The field was bathed in a pale morning light. Nothing stirred except the occasional crow, picking through the corpses for the best possible meal.

Some of the bodies were Risen, but most were Human.

Lucina stood up and surveyed the carnage. It was almost too much to comprehend. She took some small amount of relief from the fact that none of her friends or loved ones appeared to be among the dead, though she knew it was a small, selfish comfort. Many people had lost loved ones here today, slaughtered because...why?

What had been the point of killing all these people?

Mort had wanted her. He had gone back to that...other timeline with her. Had this been part of his plan all along? Did he tell his men to decimate this world, just as his own had been decimated, while he went back and tortured the princess into submission? That would explain the few Risen scattered about…

But perhaps if she had just agreed to be with him, none of this would have…

She shook her head. That was a pointless road to go down. She had learned early on in her original timeline that you could sit around moping and blaming yourself for not being strong enough…

Or you could get shit done.

She found a body nearby, and it was one that she vaguely recognized. It was a man named Roy, a farmer whose homestead was not far outside Ylisstol. He hadn’t been a soldier. He had been here to enjoy the festival.

She felt disgusting doing this, but she bent down and began to pat his body. She found a dagger, which she quickly took for herself. There wasn’t much else that would be of use to her, so she moved on. She felt like one of the crows, a filthy scavenger looking for the best meal…

She found a wrecked cart that had been filled with trade goods. She found food, and bandage wrappings. Elsewhere she found a bag, one that had no doubt been fashionable and expensive, but had been scuffed and stained beyond recognition. She stuffed it full of everything useful she thought she might need, and then she moved on.

She found a lake in the forest, and looked down into the still water to see her reflection. Parts of her hair had been burned off rather badly, and her face and clothes were covered in scorch marks. That spell of Mort’s had really done a number. Still, it looked worse than it felt.

Lucina pulled out the dagger, took a deep breath, and began chopping off the rest of her hair. She watched it fall, in blue and black clumps, into the water, where the hairs then drifted apart and floated away. She kept going until she could drag the blade along her scalp, and feel only a thin layer of fuzz, the colour indistinguishable. She gave her reflection one final look. This wasn’t likely to be the next hot style in Ylisstol, but she had never been very fashionable anyway.

Then she pulled out a roll of bandages, disrobed, and began the process of binding her breasts. When that was done, she wrapped some of the bandaging around her exposed skin, for good measure.

When she had come back in time, she had used Gerome’s mask and a shorter hairstyle to conceal her identity, and it had largely worked. The people she was hiding her identity from had not had any idea what to look for, however. This time, not only did Mort know her appearance, but he was apparently obsessed with her. She needed to be able to hide in plain sight.

A wounded farmer from outside Ylisstol...there had to be plenty of them. Of course: Roy the farmer. The man was dead, and thus would not be able to contest the identity.

Dagger in hand, she followed the trail of death.

 

Once more, the sun was rising. Once more, the countryside was bathed in pale morning light.

Brady wouldn’t get to see this one.

Lucina’s shovel broke through the earth, and came away full of soil. She had been digging only a few minutes, but had already made quite a bit of progress. It was a nice spot, a grassy hill overlooking the city on one side and the forest on the other. She and Brady had enjoyed picnics here when they were growing up, back in another time.

Everything hurt from her duel with Mort, but this couldn’t wait. Dig, toss, dig, toss.

Someone approached from behind her. She spun around, shovel at the ready to bash their brains in at a moment’s provocation.

“Lucina,” Gerome said.

She looked at him for a long moment, tears in her eyes, then turned back around. Dig, toss, dig, toss.

“Let me help you.”

“No!” Lucina growled. “Leave me alone, Gerome. I’m sorry, but I need to do this.”

Gerome was quiet, but she could tell he was still there.

Dig, toss.

“You’re right,” Gerome finally said. “You do need to do this. But you don’t need to do it alone.”

Lucina spun around again. “What was he thinking!?” she yelled. “Mort was able to beat you, me, Owain, Gaius, all at once! And Brady just...charged in! He knew he didn’t stand a chance! It was suicide!”

“It was brave,” Gerome replied. “Mort would have killed you, and me, and everyone else. Brady bought us time.”

“I don’t want time!” Lucina snapped. She threw the shovel down and charged at Gerome, punching him in the chest. “I want my brother back!”

She continued to flail at him. He grabbed her arms and held her tight. Tears were streaming freely down her face now as she struggled to get free.

“Let me go! Let me…” she said, before she broke down into unintelligible sobbing.

Gerome kept hold of her. To her surprise, she could feel him sobbing as well.

They stood there, together, the sun rising over them.

When they broke apart, no more needed to be said. Lucina picked up the shovel and resumed digging. When the grave was deep enough, Gerome helped her lower Brady’s body into the earth.

Her brother buried, Lucina went back to Ylisstol with Gerome. She would have to send a raven to her parents and let them know. She was not looking forward to that. She wasn’t really looking forward to anything.

“He’ll be back,” she said.

“I know,” Gerome answered. “We have to be ready. Mort will stop at nothing to--”

“He’s not Mort,” Lucina blurted out, and she told him everything.

He listened in contemplative silence.

“His two underlings,” he finally said, piecing it together. “The big one, Wulf. That’s...me.”

Lucina nodded. “And the other one, Joab, I think is Inigo. I don’t know if there are any others. I know there’s no me. In the other timeline, Morgan killed me.”

“How do we do this?” Gerome asked. “Morgan and Inigo are friends, and Gerome is...I’M Gerome,” he said, shaking his head. “The thought of...fighting them, of killing them…”

“I know,” Lucina said. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, and...Gerome, I won’t ask you to do this if you don’t want to. I’m willing to. I’ll kill Morgan, and the others if I have to.”

Gerome looked over at her, concern and confusion in his eyes.

“They’re not our friends! They’re not US!” she snapped. “They...they started out as the same babies that we started out as, but every moment from that point was different, because every choice made brought us down a different path. And that’s what we are. Not a bundle of skin and hair and blood, but a collection of choices. Yes, a Gerome came to this world, and slaughtered innocents, but that wasn’t YOU and it never will be YOU because you’ve chosen not to be that person. You’re a good man.”

“I…” Gerome began, and something caught in his throat. He hadn’t truly registered what had happened last night, what he had done, but he couldn’t keep it to himself. Lucina had to know. “I don’t think I am, Lucina. Last night, before you joined the fight, Mort was going to kill...the young version of me. A child. He was going to murder a child unless I surrendered, and I charged. I knew what I was doing. I knew he wasn’t bluffing. A child was going to be killed, because I wanted revenge. I wanted to wring Mort’s neck, to watch the life leave his eyes, and if doing so had resulted in the deaths of everyone else in Ylisse, I would have done it.”

Now it was Lucina’s turn to listen in quiet contemplation. She did not look at Gerome as he spoke.

“I’ve never been a great man, but I always tried to be good,” Gerome said. “But when I thought I saw you die, I...I felt myself losing control. Like a darkness I had always managed to keep at bay was no washing over me. I wanted to kill Mort, and Wulf, and Joab, no matter what. And then I wanted to die myself.”

He looked at her. Though she was scarred, and disguised, and her hair was gone, he could still see her shining through. He now understood why he had felt such a strange bond with the mysterious burned man, Roy. Lucina had an intense purity of spirit, an utter commitment to justice that he had always admired. She represented everything he wanted to better about himself.

He opened and shut his mouth, wishing he knew how to say that out loud.

“Lucina,” he whispered. “Please look at me.”

She slowly turned to meet his gaze.

“I know now is not the time,” he said. “There is too much to do, too much to mourn, too much to prepare for. But I let you go once without telling you, and I regretted it beyond my ability to express with words. I am no poet, Lucina, to woo you with honeyed words. I am a blunt measure of a man, so I know no other way to say this. I love you.”

Lucina leaned forward, slightly, and kissed him. It was soft and gentle.

“You’re right,” she whispered back. “I need time. But we will have it. My brother’s sacrifice gave us time, time we need to prepare for Mort’s next move. We can win. And we will never lose each other again. I promise you, Gerome.”

 

The scene was not quite as somber as they expected it would be when they made it back into the city.

Gaius, Lissa, Owain, Severa, and Libra were atop the castle steps. A crowd was gathered in the square, and a good deal of heated shouting was going back and forth.

“You weren’t here!” a man was screaming. “You left us to our fate while you hid underground like a coward!”

“I was arming a resistance!” Gaius shouted back. “Those weapons we used to beat the stuffing out of the Risen? They didn’t just fall out of a pinata!”

“Nobody told us what was happening,” a woman cried out. “My son nearly drank himself to death because he thought our leaders had abandoned us. If Chrom had been here…”

“Chrom isn’t here!” Gaius huffed. “I’m the Prince here, so I’m the best you’ve got!”

“Popsucker!”

“Oh, you want some of this!? You wanna go!?”

Lissa and Owain each grabbed one of Gaius’ arms and held him back.

“Oh, Uncle…” Lucina groaned as they approached.

“We were all struggling!” Lissa called out. “Please, everyone, we’ll hear all your grievances, but we need you to calm down!”

“How are we supposed to calm down?” the original instigator asked. “What if another attack happens? Who’s supposed to defend us? The Exalt isn’t here, Ser Frederick and his knights aren’t here. We might as well hang a sign on the front gates that says, ‘welcome, invaders!’”

“The city guard is still here,” Severa snapped. “And if you’re so worried about our lack of numbers, we’re always recruiting!” At this, the instigator fell quiet. “Yeah? That’s what I thought.”

“They have a point, though,” Libra said. “We need a strategy, and our strategy must take into consideration the hearts of our people. If they are to fight, they must know WHY they are fighting. That is the gift Chrom has. He could always persuade one to fight by his side…”

“Yeah, well,” Gaius muttered, running a hand through his messy red hair. “I ain’t Chrom.”

“I’m not exactly Leader of Men material myself,” Lissa said.

“Though the mighty blood of the Exalts burns through my veins, I fear my power is too chaotic and unstable at this time,” Owain said.

“I’m a great leader, and I’ll beat the stuffing out of anyone who says otherwise!” Severa said.

The bickering continued to move through the group.

“Ahem,” Lucina said.

Everyone turned to her.

“You,” Gaius said. “Who...who are you?”

Lucina stepped towards them, slowly unwrapping her bandaging and letting it fall around her. Lissa gasped first, then Owain and Severa. Gaius’ jaw dropped in disbelief.

“Lucina..?”

Severa shoved the others aside, rushed forward, and embraced her old friend in a rib-crushing hug. Despite her grief, Lucina actually giggled.

“Isn’t this the part where you bite your lip and say you don’t actually like me that much?” Lucina teased.

“Shut up and let me have this,” Severa said, not letting go.

“We have to write to Chrom,” Lissa was saying. “He needs to know you’re alright. If Nah reached him already, he’ll think you’re…”

“We need to tell him and mother about Brady,” Lucina said, and the mood was dampened once more.

“Shit,” Gaius said. “Damn kid saved us all, but...I wish it hadn’t been him. He was too good for all this.”

Gerome stood off to the side, awkwardly, unwilling to interrupt this family moment. He noticed, however, that several people in the crowd were staring at him.

“It’s you,” one of the agitated civilians said. “You’re that guy who stood up to Mort.”

“I…” Gerome began.

“Yeah! I remember you! A few days ago they were going to kill the guard captain, but you turned yourself in! You didn’t run and hide!”

“Yes, well,” Gerome continued. He could feel himself blushing. So many people staring, and me without my mask…

“I saw him stand up to a Risen in the market district yesterday,” someone else called out. “Everybody else was scared outta their minds, but he just held his ground! It was nuts!”

Gerome looked to his friends for help. He found, much to his annoyance, that they were merely smiling at him.

“I think we’ve found our next step,” Libra said, quirking an eye.

“No. What? No,” Gerome stammered.

Gaius drew a sword and held it up for all to see. “Get over here and kneel, will ya?”

Gerome walked forward, though he still felt mortified. “Are you going to kill me? Please tell me you’re going to kill me.”

“No such luck, kiddo,” Gaius responded as Gerome knelt before him. “There’s some whole rigamarole to go with this, but the abridged version will do for now. Ahem.”

He placed the blade upon Gerome’s shoulder.

“Gerome,” Gaius called out. “By my right as Prince of Ylisse, I hereby name you Knight of the Halidom. Do you swear to uphold the ideals of our people, and defend them with your life?”

Gerome looked out at the crowd. A thousand eyes, watching with excitement.

“...Yes?” he answered.

“Good enough for me,” Gaius responded. “Ser Frederick may not be here, nor our Exalt and his beloved wife, but will you all fight for your homeland alongside Ser Gerome?”

A cheer went up throughout the crowd.

“What have I done?” Gerome mumbled, as Lucina walked up beside him.

“You’ve won the hearts of the people,” she answered. “Only a good man could have done that.”

Gerome groaned. “Good man or not, more of them will die before this is all over. They will not love me for long.”

And yet, despite himself, Gerome felt the darkness within him abating. Perhaps he could control it. Channel it towards justice, not vengeance.

He looked at Lucina. Be the man she deserves, he told himself.

Or die trying.


	14. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discussion on sacrifice is had. Inigo undergoes a class change. The secret history of Anna is revealed.

Chapter 13  
Time - 8 days after the Harvest Festival  
Place - Annapolis, Plegia

 

“It is not often we must come together to lay an Anna to rest. Due to both our ass-kicking combat abilities, and also our tendency to shamelessly manipulate space-time, I can’t even really remember the last time an Anna has died. Thus, in the absence of any prepared ceremony, I have asked Highlander Anna to play us a sorrowful tune while we partake in a 21-Anna salute. I need 21 Anna’s to volunteer. You, you...sure, go for it, Hook-Hand Anna...Put your hand down, “Veronica,” you want to salute, you wash out that awful purple hair dye. You, you…”

Inigo watched this unfold, arms crossed in front of his chest. An Anna in a green and red checkered kilt walked slowly by, wailing away with a set of bagpipes. Anna’s of all different thematic styles stood arm in arm, weeping or frowning or whispering amongst themselves. Those picked out by Anna Prime stood over the grave where Samurai Anna was being laid, saluting in harmony.

“I can’t believe we’re doing all this while Morgan is out there with that lunatic,” Inigo mumbled to himself.

“They may be a bit eccentric, but it’s the right thing to do to respect their customs,” a man said, walking up next to him. Inigo glanced over at the individual, who was tall, lanky, and incredibly plain looking. He was wearing simple olive green clothing that looked like it had been worn for decades.

“Uhh, okay,” Inigo responded. He was not in a particularly forgiving mood. “Do I know you, friend?”

The man gave him a blank stare.

“...Oh, OH. Sorry, dad, I...wow. Have I ever seen you outside your armour before?”

“Probably hundreds of times,” Kellam responded.

“Huh. Yeah. So...what happened to your armour?”

“I brought it to a Smith Anna,” Kellam answered. “She said she’d try her best, but that I shouldn’t get my hopes up. That sword Mort was using, Balmung...I’ve seen it before. Robin used to use it. I don’t know how Mort got his hands on it, but it’s powerful. Cut through my armour like it was cheesecloth. If it hadn’t been so bulky, I’d probably be a kabob right now.”

“Wow…” Inigo rubbed the back of his head, awkwardly. “Dad, I...thanks. You leapt right in front of me before I even knew what was happening. If you hadn’t been there, I’D be the kabob.”

Kellam smiled. “Of course, son. Loving someone does that, you know? Makes you want to leap in front of certain death to protect them.”

Inigo gave a weak smile back, but it quickly gave up and slumped into a frown. “I should have done that for Morgan,” he said. “I finally manage to tell her how I feel, and...I let that psychopath grab her. If I had just been faster, or...or stronger, I…”

Kellam placed a hand under his son’s chin and lifted his face up to look him in the eyes. “Listen to me, Inigo,” he said. “We’ll get her back. Okay? We’re going to stop at nothing until we get her back.”

Inigo gulped, but nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Moping about it won’t solve anything. So...what’s the plan?”

“Plan...plan, huh...I guess Morgan was our tactician, wasn’t she?” Kellam mused. “Well, okay, that’s fine. How hard can it be?”

“Oh, Gods,” Inigo groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“Psst, hey,” came a new voice. Inigo peeked through his fingers. Anna Prime had approached the two of them.

“We need to talk,” she said. “Come with me.”

Without waiting another moment, she brushed past them. Inigo and Kellam exchanged a glance, then hurried after her.

She led them to a small supply shack, one that looked as if it couldn’t even fit all three of them at the same time. She pulled out a key and unlocked the door. It was pitch black inside, but when his eyes adjusted, Inigo saw it was just a stairwell heading down deep into the earth.

“Come on! No time to waste!”

Anna was gone in the blink of an eye. Inigo and Kellam exchanged yet another furtive look, then Inigo took the lead and began to head downwards.

The smell of gross, wet cave quickly engulfed them. The stairs leading downwards were decrepit and dusty. Inigo began to wonder if they were just being taken into a dungeon to be murdered.

“Where--” he began to ask, but Anna quickly shushed him.

Finally they reached the end of the stairs. Inigo couldn’t see a damned thing, but kept moving forward, following the sound of Anna’s echoing footsteps. He was so nervous and alert that he was even aware of his father silently trailing after them.

“Halt!” Anna suddenly called out, and Inigo nearly walked into her from behind. “Only an Anna may travel any further into the Hall of Hidden Truths, Unearthed Secrets, and Ultimate Destinies.”

“Oh, well,” Inigo replied, “should we just head back the way we came, or--”

Several pairs of hands grabbed him. He yelled out in surprise and fear, and heard his father yelling after him, but it sounded like he was so far away now…

He was half-pushed, half-carried further into the cavern. So many pairs of hands were on him, pulling, tearing, grabbing his hair, grabbing his clothes. It was funny, he thought; he couldn’t count how many daydreams he had had along these lines, but the real thing was a good deal more terrifying.

“What are you-- ow! Stop! No, that’s attached to me-- ow!”

The voices were conversing with each other, talking so fast and simultaneously that he couldn’t understand any of them.

Something wet and cold was being applied to his head.

“What’s happening? Am I dying? Is this what murder feels like?” he asked, to no response.

To his great horror, his clothes were being stripped off, though new clothes were quickly being applied in their place. He was alternatively shoved down into a seat, and lifted back up onto his feet. Various devices were applied to his face and head, primping and preening. He coughed and recoiled, but more hands reached out to grab him and hold him still.

Finally, light erupted all around him, filling the cavern. He winced, covering his eyes, until they had a moment to adjust.

One of the Anna’s was holding a large mirror in front of him.

“Oh,” he said.

His hair had been dyed a bright red. Some light makeup had been applied, giving his face a bright, beautiful sheen. He was wearing a new outfit, red and gold filigree with a flared collar and a flowing cloak. A rapier - with a little teddy bear attached to the hilt - was strapped to his side.

Anna Prime walked up and stood beside the mirror, smiling at him.

“Inigo is no more!” she announced, to everyone assembled. “Welcome...Annigo!”

There was a moment of silence.

“That sounded better in my head,” she admitted. “You can, uh, you can just be Inigo.”

Inigo was hardly listening. He looked himself up and down. He ran a finger along the hem of his new collar. He pulled out his rapier and gave it a few practice swings.

“I like it,” he said.

“There you are! You’re alright, I was worried that-- whoa,” Kellam said, running up from wherever he had been detained. “That’s, uh...that’s quite a look.”

“Yes, I agree,” Inigo said. He gave the mirror a winning smile. Perhaps it was just the lighting in here, but it looked like a tooth sparkled. “My, my,” he said. “Hello, ladies…”

“Focus, Inigo,” Kellam chided.

“Right, sorry,” Inigo said, shaking his head. “So...what is all this?”

“Look, I’ll level with you,” Anna Prime said, turning to face them once more, “we were always going to agree to help you guys. Nobody was supposed to be in any danger; we just wanted to have a bit of fun and play up the drama before marching off to battle. That’s kind of our thing, right?”

“So that arena match was just…” Inigo prompted.

“Entertainment! Good ol’ harmless fun!” Anna Prime crossed her arms, her facial expressing turning sour. “Then that Mort guy showed up and...and actually killed one of us. The nerve! And with your girl snatched, that means you’re gonna have to be our liaison instead.”

“Okay, well, what I’m gathering from this is, dumb nonsense aside, you’re going to come with us to Ylisstol, and help us track down Mort to kick his ass and get Morgan back?”

“Well, yes,” Anna Prime explained, though she seemed offended by the dumb nonsense comment. “We’ll march in the morning, at first light. Let everyone have the evening to mourn. It...really isn’t often that one of us gets killed.” Her usually mischievous expression was looking surprisingly somber. Inigo actually felt...moved.

“One of us,” Inigo repeated. “I guess that includes me now, huh? But...I have to ask...who are you people?” He looked around at all the Anna’s assembled in this underground complex, then turned his attention back to Anna Prime. “This isn’t just dyed hair and matching colour schemes. You all look identical. How?”

The Anna’s looked around amongst themselves, clearly uncertain. Then Anna Prime sighed.

“Okay,” she said. “Fair enough. I’m going to tell you the secret history of Anna.”

Something flared up behind her, and Inigo’s eyes were drawn to the massive back wall of the underground complex. But it wasn’t a wall at all. It was a gate, huge and elaborate and covered in runes. And while it didn’t go anywhere, it was now rather clearly moving.

“What the hell?” he gasped.

“But first,” Anna continued, “I’m going to have to tell you the secret history of this thing.”

As she walked towards the gate, it seemed to react to her presence, the space within it ebbing and flowing like water. Inigo could...not quite see, but feel the memory of images flashing before his eyes. A soft, persistent sound was calling out, like someone far away trying to whisper something to him.

“Protect h…”

“Give y…”

He saw himself, held in Morgan’s embrace, looking into their eyes…

He shook his head. The sounds and visions faded, and reality came flowing back in to take it’s place.

“What is that thing,” he gasped, as if he had just been holding his breath.

“Inigo? What happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” Kellam asked, watching with fatherly concern.

“Interesting,” Anna mused, looking between father and son. “You seem particularly affected by it. It doesn’t react to just anyone. Your average schmoe walks up to one of these, and it’s just a big eyesore, an empty metal gate to nowhere. But to the right person...”

She turned to the gate and lifted her arms over her head.

“It’s a gate to EVERYWHERE.”

He could see Ylisstol, but it wasn’t his Ylisstol. The giant castle was the same, but the buildings and landscape around it were different in subtle but noticeable ways.

The scene shifted, and it was Ylisstol again, but another one. The castle remained, an unmoving focal point, but all around it things had changed. An extra building here, a missing one there…

The worlds blinked by, Ylisstol castle fixed in the center, everything around it shifting and morphing. In one instance, large factories poured smoke into the atmosphere, and massive flying machines moored outside the city walls. In another, large, hauntingly beautiful trees had been grown across the land, and houses were built amidst their boughs and branches. A world flashed by that was a lovely shade of pink, cherry blossom flowers littering the landscape, as people in the flowing robes of an aesthetic order walked about and trained in martial arts.

“There are more worlds than we could ever hope to find,” Anna said, as Inigo and Kellam watched in awe. “As you can see, there’s a divine presence in Castle Ylisstol that lends it a sort of permanence. But anything else is possible. There are worlds where something called the steam engine has been invented, propelling technology to almost the same level as magic. Other worlds have shunned technological advancement in favour of living closer with nature. Some have had cultural renaissances, some a surge in militarism. But they’re all worlds like ours, ones that stem from some common ancestral point and then...diverged. They’re so close, you could almost reach a hand out, and…”

Anna did so. Her hand touched the energy floating in the gate, and it rippled, expanded outwards, a thousand universes mingling together, identical yet so very different…

The gate went dark.

“I’m the Anna from this world,” she said. “But every world you just saw also has an Anna. As it has an Inigo, and a...what was your name again?”

“Kellam.”

“Kevin, right. And like the worlds themselves, they are the same, and yet...different. One, yet separate. Together, but so far apart. Until one of us found the gate.”

“So...you used these gates to connect with each other? To travel across the different worlds as you pleased?” Inigo asked, still struggling to wrap his head around all this.

“Hey, who’s doing the dramatic revealing here? You? No? Didn’t think so! But...yeah, pretty much exactly what you just said. The first Anna to discover the Outrealm Gate was cunning, and knew the only person she could trust was herself. So she found her. Together they found another Outrealm Gate, and then another. They all connected, and could go anywhere. Soon two Annas became three, then five, then fifteen, and now...it’s hard to keep count of how many of us work the gates. We’ve taken to it as a sort of sacred duty.”

“Why?” Inigo asked. “I mean, given how...uh, thrifty you all are, I’d have thought you’d be selling tickets for anyone who wants to explore these...what did you call them? Outrealms?”

“We-ell, sometimes we let people through, if they’ve been properly vetted,” Anna explained, pressing her two index fingers together as if she were feeling guilty. “There are some fun spots, like the Bathrealm, or the Beachrealm. Don’t give me that look,” she added, when Inigo and Kellam both appeared incredulous. “I don’t make the realms! But...well, while we’d be happy to invite, say, Exalt Chrom to a bathing suit photo op in a universe where glistening body oil technology has reached stunning levels of innovation, there ARE downsides to the existence of the gates.”

“Why...bathing suit...oils...what…” Inigo stammered, trying to wrap his mind around what hadn’t sounded like a hypothetical.

“Let’s just move on,” Anna insisted. “As I was saying, there are downsides. Yes, Anna always wants to use it for fun and profit, but there are other figures in each universe who could - and, perhaps, have - use it to cause unspeakable destruction.”

She turned back to the gate and lifted her arms like the conductor of an orchestra, and once more the gate lit up and began to swirl, conjuring images from a multitude of worlds--

The images stuttered, and dimmed, until they had frozen on a scene of perpetual gray nothingness. Every now and again, the nothingness ‘flashed’, but what it shifted into was simply more nothingness. Inigo squinted to try to make out something, anything, but it simply gave him a headache.

“These are Outrealms, too,” Anna said, “but they’re...for lack of a better word...dead.”

Inigo watched the absence in front of him, the utter lack, the complete nonexistence. Dead didn’t seem to be strong enough. These universes were reduced into having never been.

Perhaps his newfound Anna powers had emboldened his flair for the dramatic, but it felt narratively appropriate at this point to say, “null. These timelines are null.”

“Sure, whatever makes you happy,” Anna replied with a shrug. “Now, we’re not positive what causes this, though we can make a pretty good guess.”

“Grima,” Inigo and Kellam said in unison.

“Bingo,” Anna said. “We defeated him in this timeline, and he’s defeated in many other timelines as well. But...infinite parallel dimensions means that for every time we succeed, there’s a theoretical possibility of a time where we fail.”

“Infinite Grima’s,” Kellam gasped. “Gosh.”

“Holy shit,” Inigo said, a bit less delicately.

“Right,” Anna went on. “Now imagine, if you will...a timeline where Grima wins. But before he has finished unraveling reality, he finds an Outrealm Gate. Anna would attempt to destroy it before that could happen, but if she were unable to...if she were dead, or imprisoned...the gate and it’s powers would fall into his hands. And every reality that would otherwise be safe from him is now at risk once again.”

“We can’t let that happen,” Inigo said. “We need to destroy this gate! To destroy all of them! It’s not worth the risk--”

“Slow your roll, buddy,” Anna chided. “It doesn’t work like that. You need a gate to enter, but you *don’t* need a gate to exit. Sure, we could destroy this one, but people from other worlds could pop out in our universe wherever they please. And the idea of destroying every gate in every timeline is unfeasible. It would literally take eternity.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Inigo asked. There was some strange noise buzzing in his ears, and it was beginning to irritate him.

“What? Nothing,” Anna said. “You wanted to know about the gates, I told you about the gates. We’ll keep monitoring things as well we can, and hope heroes like you guys defeat as many Grima’s in as many worlds as possible.”

Inigo shook his head. “No, no, no, that...you just dropped a massive bombshell on me that there are approximately infinity world-eating demon dragons out there, and your strategy is ‘hope for the best’? If I’m an Anna now, I have to help do something about this!”

“What exactly do you think there is you can do?” Anna asked. “Fighting Grima once cost thousands of lives and destroyed most of Plegia. And that’s here, in a reality where we WON. There is no secret weapon to put a stop to all this. Everyone just has to fight, as often as they need to. And sometimes they’ll fail.”

“But...but…” Inigo shook his head. “I’m sorry, what is that noise!?”

“What noise?” Kellam asked, giving his son a concerned look.

Inigo stared into the gate. His father, Anna, not to mention all the other Anna’s, faded from view. Something was in there, calling for him.

“Uhm,” Anna said, uncharacteristically nervous, “I’m not doing that.”

The gate was alive again, and it was shifting to a new world, one that was not null. Inigo saw a familiar scene: Ylisstol Castle’s throne room, blackened and lifeless, no citizens bustling through it, no natural light streaming in from the many ornate glass windows.

“Who did that?” Ann was asking, shooting accusatory glances around at her fellow selves, but everyone was mum. Inigo took a few steps closer to the gate, not entirely aware of what he was doing, compelled by some greater force…

From off to the side, a form was pushed, stumbled and fell into the view of the gate. Inigo gasped and rushed forward.

Morgan slowly lifted herself up. She was frighteningly pale, her skin almost as white as her hair. She was wearing the same clothes she had been when last he saw her, though they now looked more faded and dusty. Her hair was a mess.

And an amateurish eyepatch was wrapped across her face, covering a swollen and miscoloured gash over her left eye.

“Don’t!” Anna yelled, as several of her rushed forward to restrain Inigo before he could lunge through the gate.

“Let me go! Morgan! I’m here, Morgan!”

“It’s a trap, you idiot!” Anna grunted. Inigo’s fervor was helping him put up quite a fight, even so heavily outnumbered. “We don’t know what’s on the other side!”

“I don’t care! Morgan, I’m here!”

“I know you are. No need to yell.”

Morgan looked up. She had not spoken. Another figure walked into view. The same pale white skin and hair, the same eyepatch wrapped around the same wound…

“Mort!” Inigo snarled.

“Fascinating,” Mort said, looking around. “So there are more of these gates than we knew. Ah, well, it doesn’t change much...we still need the power of the Ylissean throne for father to cross…”

“What did he do to you?” Inigo asked Morgan. “I’m so sorry I let this happen. I’ll--”

“Shut up!” Mort snapped. “If you want to talk to a Morgan, you talk to me. The REAL Morgan. No more cheap imitations. You, her, Gerome...you’re like worms to us. How could a timeline that defeated Grima have produced such weak and pathetic versions of us?”

“What the hell--”

“You want YOUR Morgan back?” Mort asked, yanking Morgan to her feet by her hair. She yelped, but appeared too weak to put up much of a struggle. “Head to Ylisstol. I’ll be there in a few days time. Know that when you get there, I intend to kill you. I don’t see much need to pretend this isn’t a trap, since you’re going to walk into it anyway.”

He pulled out a blade and pressed it against Morgan’s throat.

“You’d risk death to save the one you love, wouldn’t you?” His face became a twisted grimace of disgust and hatred. “Really, I still don’t get it. Him, of all people...eurgh…”

“I’m gonna kill you, buddy!” Inigo screamed. “You’re underestimating my new army of sassy redheads! We’re coming for you!”

“Yeah, he hung up,” Anna pointed out. The gate had gone dark once more. “So that was the guy from earlier. He’s got a gate...which means he’s in another timeline right now.” She turned to look back at Inigo. “Did you know about this?”

“No!” Inigo snapped. He thought back on Mort’s words...calling himself the REAL Morgan...no, there was no way…

“Well, we were already planning to head back to Ylisstol,” Kellam pointed out. “I guess that’s still the plan. But Inigo…”

“No buts,” Inigo replied. “Except Mort’s butt, which I’m going to kick. That...was a stretch, sorry.” He let out a long, deep sigh. “We’re going. Even though he said he’s planning to kill me.” He tried his best to give his father a reassuring smile. “Good thing I’ve got you there to protect me, right?”

Kellam didn’t seem particularly comforted, but he nodded. “Of course. I’ll always be your shield, son. ...You remember what I said earlier, right? Loving someone makes you want to jump into certain death to protect them.”

Inigo noticed that his father seemed very apprehensive as he said this.

But it was true. Inigo wasn’t thinking of his own safety; he just knew he had to help Morgan.

The REAL Morgan. The one he loved.

“Anna!” he announced.

“Yes, Anna?” came the reply in surround sound. Anna Prime was smirking at him.

“We leave at first light, as agreed.”

Inigo drew his sword, and pointed it in an arbitrary direction as dramatically as he could.

“We’re open for business, Mort,” he shouted, “and all ass beatings are 50% off!”

The Anna’s let out a cheer. It wasn’t a great pun, but the enthusiasm was there, and that was what mattered.


	15. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More questions without answers. A family is reunited. Nah receives a new mission.

Chapter 14

Time - Early morning, 9 days after the Harvest Festival

Place - Feroxi Outpost, Ylissean Border

 

It was...it was so HOT.

The heat was intense. It was scalding. She felt like she was burning away from the inside…

And it was wonderful.

Nah took another huge bite of piping hot oatmeal. She had been supplied with special blankets designed for those dealing with extreme cold or great physical stress. As she had dealt with both, she was currently wrapped in two blankets. Maybe it was excessive, but it felt good.

She looked across the wide, circular wooden table towards Lucina. The young girl was eating as voraciously as Nah herself. Her colour had returned and she seemed to be in pretty high spirits.

They had spent the entirety of the past day being carefully watched, treated and pampered by the Feroxi medic of the outpost, who had even recruited several soldiers to help ensure their well-being. Lucina, in particular, had been at great risk of permanent damage due to frostbite.

Miraculously, they would both make it out of this without the loss of any limbs or appendages.

“It’s like somebody was watching over you, out there in the blizzard,” the medic had told Nah. She had rolled her eyes in response, but mostly out of habit.

That night, when she was absolutely certain that everyone else was soundly sleeping, she had whispered, “thanks, mom and dad.” She was prepared to deny it to the grave if anyone tried to claim they’d heard her.

She was elated that Lucina was physically safe and sound, though she was a bit more worried about her emotional well-being. The young princess SEEMED fine, but...she was what, five? Six years old? And she had helped Nah kill that manakete in the woods. She had been right there when Nah had slit their assailants throat, soaking them both in blood. If the frostbite had not left a lasting mark, that kind of memory might…

Nah had been forced to grow up at a very young age. She didn’t wish that misery on anyone else.

She realized Lucina was looking at her, no doubt wondering why she was being stared at so intently. Nah offered a cheery smile, which Lucina reciprocated.

“I have something I need to do,” Nah announced rather suddenly. “You stay here, okay, Lucina?”

“Wait!” Lucina objected, jumping to our feet. “We should go together. We’re a team!”

“We’re a great team,” Nah agreed, “but I need to do this alone. Okay? I’ll be back in just a few minutes. I promise.”

Lucina ran over and hugged her. Nah hugged her back, and then, after the lengthy and strenuous process of peeling the princess off of her, made her way over to the guard.

They were still being kept under surveillance, with their guards instructed to run for the medic at the slightest sign of illness or weakness. This one straightened up when Nah approached, and she gave him a stern look.

“I need to pee. Watch her, okay?” she instructed, indicating with her head back towards Lucina. The guard nodded, but Nah went on. “I mean it. Actually watch her. None of this, ‘oh, I’m just a dumb, nameless, generic guard,’ business. No looking over your shoulder because a child tricked you into thinking a leprechaun was outside. Keep your eye on her, or so help me, I will turn into a dragon and eat your head. Okay?”

“...I have a name,” the guard responded sullenly as she walked away.

Nah made a beeline towards the exit of the small outpost. Obviously she wasn’t under arrest or anything like that, but she still didn’t exactly want to answer any questions about what she was doing. She kept her head down and made a point of circumventing a few of the border guards that were idling about.

Once she had successfully stealthed her way to the edge of town, she set off along the southern path, down the way they had first arrived from. She stuck to the treeline along the west side of the road, her boots squelching in the soggy mixture of snow and mud.

It was still a bit chilly - it was late Autumn, after all - but the temperature was a good twenty degrees warmer than it had been these past few harrowing days. It was actually rather lovely by comparison. Nah appreciated being able to go for a walk outside without feeling like she was going to keel over.

Of course, she didn’t love the thought of where she was going.

Keeping up a good pace - she was only supposed to be peeing, after all - it only took her a few minutes to reach her destination. She was relieved the scene hadn’t been discovered or tampered with by the Feroxi guards. She just...she had to be sure…

There, she could see it now, face-down in a puddle of congealed blood. She nervously approached, took a deep breath to steady herself, then grabbed the body with both hands and rolled it over.

The cold had preserved the scene, leaving the body without any sign of decay. The face was pale from blood loss, and dried blood had crusted along the slit across her throat.

But even still, she recognized this girl.

She had thought she had seen it for a brief, flickering moment as she squinted through her tears and the snow. As the life had left her body, the mysterious and murderous Manakete had changed slightly. Illusion magic couldn’t be maintained if the source generating the magic was dead.

The corpse in her hands was her own. This was Nah.

What the f--

From further south along the path, she could hear the unmistakeable sound of hoofbeats clopping along at a steady pace. Her first thought was that Mort’s men had finally tracked her down, that they were heading to the Feroxi outpost where they would kill everyone there, perhaps even little Lucina. Still dragging the corpse of her doppelganger, Nah swiftly retreated further into the treeline, crouching down and hoping to remain hidden from the main road. Only a moment after she had ducked her head down behind some brush, the first horses came into view.

“Whoa there!” a voice cried out, as a horse was reined to a halt right by where she had just been standing. “There’s blood on the road here, sire.”

Sire? Nah thought. Oh Gods, who is it now?

“Troubling,” came a voice, deep and confident. “No sign of a body, however. Perhaps the blood merely belongs to a deer, struck by a hunter’s arrow.”

The owner of the second voice dismounted next to the first man, and Nah saw a flash of blue hair, regal and shining armour, an elegant sword with familiar etchings…

“Chrom!” she gasped under her breath, relief washing over her. It was finally over. They were saved!

A moment of doubt stopped her from rushing out of the woods towards them; she was now covered in the dried blood of...herself? Well, it looked like she was covered in the blood of someone or other, and a mysterious blood-soaked figure rushing out of the woods to charge at a prince would probably net her a few arrows to the chest before she even got close.

This is just like when I needed to warn Ylisstol after the Harvest Festival attack, she thought to herself bitterly. Why do I keep finding myself in situations where I look like a deranged lunatic?

Chrom and his honour guard were mounting up once more. As soon as they had galloped out of sight, Nah dropped the corpse of her alternate self. She didn’t know what was going on, who this doppelganger was, where she had come from, why she had wanted so badly to kill her. But standing around in a forest wasn’t going to give her any answers.

Besides, she thought with a slight smirk, she had won. Two versions of Nah had gone down two different paths, and collided with each other...but the path she, this Nah, was on, had ended in survival. So she must be doing something right.

Struggling to brush as much blood off herself as she could while running, Nah made her way back towards the outpost.

 

King Chrom, Exalt of Ylisse, Wielder of the Divine Falchion, and arguably the most powerful person currently alive, ran his hand across his face in exasperation.

“You’re not getting it,” he said, again. “I’m Prince Chrom, Exalt of--”

“I know who you are, sir,” the Feroxi guard said, quivering slightly as he spoke. “But I like my head on my shoulders where it belongs, and I’m not going to have no dragon biting it off because I shirked my duty. I’m holding my ground until she gets back, or my name isn’t--”

“Excuse me!” Nah gasped, doubling over as she panted for breath. “It’s okay! Let him through, nameless guard!”

“I’m not nameless!” the guard huffed. “I was just about to say, ‘or my name isn’t--’”

Chrom and his entourage brushed past him. Nah rushed after, gave the guard an apologetic look, and followed inside.

“Daddy!” Lucina cried, jumping up and rushing into her father’s arms. The Exalt knelt down, arms open, then picked her up and swung her around gleefully.

“Lucina,” he sobbed, running a hand through her hair. “I came as fast as I could once I heard you were here. Your mother is not far behind. We were so worried.”

“I missed you too,” Lucina said. “But Nowi kept me safe. And I kept her safe. We were a team.”

Nah watched the father and daughter reunion. She was relieved that young Lucina had made it safely through this ordeal. But another hole was opening in the pit of her stomach. She would have to tell Chrom about the other Lucina...the one not born in this world, but no less his daughter…

“Nowi?” Chrom asked, quirking a brow at Nah. Nah shrugged.

“Yep,” she said, half-heartedly. “That’s me.”

“I understand,” the Exalt said with a chuckle. “Some things must be...complicated to explain.”

Lucina was looking between the two of them, clearly confused. “What are you guys talking about?” she asked.

Nah rubbed the back of her head, nervously. “Uhm...Lucina, I...I think I need to talk to your dad alone, for a minute. I, uh…”

“Let me pass, rubes!”

Nah immediately felt her posture get a bit straighter.

If Chrom was only ‘arguably’ the most powerful person currently alive, then his wife, Queen Maribelle, was the one who ‘arguably’ out-ranked him.

“Mom!” Lucina cheered, all curiosity about Nah’s strange behaviour forgotten. Mother and daughter embraced in a tearful hug, just as father and daughter had.

At a moment like this, Nah couldn’t help but wish she still had flesh and blood parents. She wondered if the version of herself lying dead in the woods right now had been an orphan, or if through some ironic twist of fate her parents were alive and well, out there somewhere, wondering where their daughter was.

“Ahem,” Nah said, rather pointedly breaking up the heartwarming reunion. All three royals turned to look at her with varying degrees of annoyance.

“Mr. and Mrs...uh, Exalt, I have something I need to tell you.” She braced herself. This was it. No turning back now. “It’s about...L-Lucina…”

Chrom held up a hand, bringing her to a verbal halt. “We already received the letter from her. We know about Brady.”

Nah looked between Chrom and Maribelle.

“...What?” she asked.

“We received a missive from Lucina while on our way here,” Chrom explained. “She told us that she is safe, and Ylisstol has been liberated from the Plegian invaders. But Brady fell in combat. He was, I understand, very brave.”

Nah opened and closed her mouth a few times.

“WHAT!?” she said again. “Lucina wrote to you! But...but I saw her…!”

“She did say there was a lot to explain,” Maribelle said. “And she did hope we would find you and return you safely home with us, Nah.”

Nah was unbelievably confused, but rising up amidst her emotions was an overwhelming sense of relief and joy. Lucina was alive! Somehow she had survived, and Ylisstol was saved! She felt the first few tears of joy work their way to face.

The loss of Brady, of course, was a tragedy. But Nah had always looked up to Lucina, like a big sister she never had. To find out that she was okay, after spending the week convinced of her tragic and untimely death...

“Hey!” someone shouted, anger and agitation in their voice. It was Lucina. “Someone tell me what’s going on! You keep talking about Lucina, but...I don’t know what you’re talking about! And why did you call her Nah, mom!?” she asked, pointing an accusing finger at the Manakete. “She looks like my friend Nah but she’s Nowi!”

There was a tense silence as Chrom, Maribelle and Nah exchanged glances. This was a difficult subject. They had spent years tip-toeing around it. It would need to be handled with the utmost delicacy.

“Well…” Chrom muttered.

“You see…” Maribelle stammered.

“I am Nah,” Nah blurted out. “I’m your friend, Nah, from the future. I came back in time with other friends of mine, including you. The Lucina they’re talking about is you from the future.”

She cringed as Chrom and Maribelle glared angrily at her. Whoops.

“That…” Lucina began, then paused for a moment. When she had finally had a moment to think, she said, “is FREAKING AWESOME!”

“Language!” Maribelle snapped, mostly out of habit.

“Can I meet her!? I mean me!?” Lucina asked. “I bet she’s so cool! What does she look like? How does she wear her hair? Can she use a sword? I can travel through time, wow! I bet she can ride dragons!”

“I blame you for this,” Maribelle shot at Nah, as her daughter excitedly ran around in circles.

“Lucina deserves to know the truth,” Nah said, finding some backbone and standing her ground. “I’m sorry I accidentally brought her out of the city, and got her tangled up in this mess, but...well, she helped me. A lot. I may be dead if not for her. She’s a strong, capable young woman.” She watched young Lucina puff out her chest and beam with pride at having her praises sung. “We’re a team. And I’m done lying.”

Chrom walked over and placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder. They were both still staring at Nah, but their expressions were softening.

“Nah,” Chrom said, his voice kind yet firm. “We owe you our thanks. Regardless of anything else that happened, you kept our daughter safe.”

“Yes,” Maribelle said, a bit more stiffly - giving praise was apparently not something she did often. “If she had been left behind in Ylisstol, and those Plegian brutes had laid a hand on her, why...I shudder to think of it.”

“When this is all over, you will be compensated appropriately--” Chrom began saying, but Nah quickly cut him off.

“What? No!” she said with a nervous laugh. “Lucina is a friend. I’d do anything for her.” She paused, then added, “any her.”

“Well, still,” Chrom said, looking and acting equally as awkward. “We owe you. And...there is one more thing I would ask of you.”

Nah nodded. “What is it, sir?”

“Lucina, in her letter to us, begged we make haste in returning to Ylisstol. That Plegian, Mort, had been ousted, but not killed. She seems to believe rather strongly that he will return, and I trust her judgment in this matter.” The Exalt pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “Always bloody Plegia…”

Something stuck in Nah’s brain. Things she’d seen, questions she’d asked herself…

“I don’t know if it was really Plegia, exactly,” she answered, hesitantly, not entirely sure where she was going with this.

Chrom and Maribelle looked at her curiously.

“What makes you say that?” Chrom asked.

Well, you said no more lies...Nah grumbled to herself, and she told them. About the version of herself lying dead in the woods, about the scrolls of illusion spells depicting Mort’s other henchmen which she had found in that cave, and about the ominous sketch of Grima presiding over a burning Ylisstol.

“What exactly does this all mean?” Maribelle asked, when Nah had finished telling her tale.

“I don’t know,” Nah answered, shaking her head. “But...well, we accept that there are already two of each of us here, right? Me and young me, Lucina and young Lucina…well, what if instead of two, there were...three?”

“And these third versions of you are working at Grima’s behest,” Chrom said, his voice and expression dark. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Yeah…” Nah said, forced to agree. “But I can’t figure out how else the pieces could all fit together.”

“Well, whatever the case may be.” Chrom walked over to Nah, appraising her thoughtfully. “Our city is still in danger. Even with the storm abated, it will take another few days for our guards and I to reach the city with all our numbers and supplies. In the meantime, we need someone to race ahead, let Lucina know we our own our way, and lend their strength to any trouble that may arise in the meantime. I know you’ve already been through a lot, but--”

“Yes!” Nah yelped. She slapped a hand over her mouth, embarrassed at how childish she had just sounded. “Ahem. Yes,” she said, much more dignified this time. “I’ll fly ahead to Ylisstol. Thank you.”

“Then you should get ready to head out as soon as possible,” Chrom urged. “I’m sorry, but as we don’t know all the details of the situation, we can’t afford to delay.”

Nah nodded in agreement. “I’m ready. I can leave now. I just…” she paused, and looked at young Lucina.

Two old friends approached each other, and shared a hug.

“Thanks, Lucina,” Nah said, softly. “I couldn’t have gotten through all this without you.”

“Be careful, Nowi-- I mean, Nah!” Lucina replied. “I want to see you when we get back to Ylisstol! We’re a team, remember!”

“Yeah,” Nah replied. “I’ll be waiting.”

She stood up, offered a friendly smile to Chrom and Maribelle, and left the building.

Lucina watched through a slightly fogged window as Nah took out her dragonstone, transformed into a gigantic pink dragon, unfurled her wings, and launched herself into the sky.

“Wow,” Lucina gaped. “So freaking cool.”

“Who taught you to speak like that?” Maribelle tsked.

“Uncle Gaius,” Lucina tattled sheepishly.

“I am going to bash his freaking head in--” Maribelle snapped, while Chrom chuckled.

“Uhm, I have a question,” Lucina said, hoping to change the subject. “You said someone named Brady died instead of me...uhm, instead of Lucina.” She saw both her parents suddenly grow more somber. “Who was that?”

Her mother and father exchanged a look, silently discussing the matter, then Chrom nodded.

“I realize this isn’t the best time or place to tell you,” Maribelle said, beckoning her daughter over. She gently took Lucina’s hand and placed it against her stomach. “But, since we’re being so honest...you’re going to have a little baby brother soon.”

Lucina screamed with excitement in the way only a six year old can get away with.


	16. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerome interrogates himself. Tea with mum goes slightly better. Cherche delivers unexpected news. A new army approaches Ylisstol.

Chapter 15  
Time - Late Afternoon, 12 days after the Harvest Festival  
Place - Ylisstol

The city is burning and my friends are dead…

Gerome had seen it happen before. The greatest warriors of an age had all been unable to stop it. One by one they had fallen, leaving behind their orphaned children, stranded in a doomed timeline. Exalt Chrom, Queen Maribelle, the Tactician Robin and his wife, the Sorceress Aversa, not to mention Gerome’s own parents, two of the most gifted warriors from Ylisse and Valm…

And now, instead of any of them, it was up to he, Gerome, to stop it from happening a second time.

No pressure or anything.

He did have help, of course. From where he was standing, atop the balcony outside the castle’s war room, he could see Gaius and Severa leading training exercises for the eager yet woefully amateurish city guard and militia. After seeing what had happened to their beloved city this past week, there was no shortage of volunteers willing to take up arms and fight to stop it from happening again. Of course, no amount of eagerness could make up for a lack of skill and training.

Gerome watched as Severa and Gaius imparted their own unique styles upon the Ylisstol militia. Severa was the offspring of Frederick the Knight and Cordelia the Pegasus Rider, two Ylissean fighters renowned both for their combat prowess, and anal retentive obsession with perfection. As such, Severa was a brutally effective fighter, classically trained in sword and axe, with moves that would make the most seasoned veteran envious.

Gaius, on the other hand, was not classically trained in anything; he had a natural swiftness and a quick wit, but he was not above teaching his subordinates how to throw dirt in someone’s eyes, or give them a good kick in the family jewels.

Gerome watched as the two began to butt heads over their differences in methods (“you’re getting dirt on my half of the courtyard!” came Severa’s loud, shrill voice) when a clearing of a throat behind him made him jump slightly.

“Sorry. Just me,” said Lucina with a small but affectionate smile.

She walked over to stand beside him, nuzzling up close. Her body offered some welcome warmth; it was chilly up here, and it still felt weird to feel breeze brush against his unmasked face.

“It was only a few days ago that I was up here as Mort’s prisoner,” Gerome said. “I stood on this balcony and looked over the city until Wulf...that bastardized version of me...came and fetched me. Like the obedient pup I was.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through all that alone,” she responded. “I wish I could have revealed myself earlier, but…”

“I understand,” he said, cutting her off. “Even joining the fray when you did was risky.” He could feel that her leaning against him was only partly out of affection; it was also because her many wounds made it difficult for her to stand and walk unaided. She would have needed weeks more of rest to fully heal, and that was before suffering another defeat at the hands of Mort.

“It’s nice to see you without your mask,” Lucina suddenly said. “I know it had its uses, but, well...seeing you is nice.”

She smiled up at him. He offered a smile back, though his was clearly a bit more forced than hers.

“Speaking of seeing me…” he grumbled. “I need to go down to the cells. Talk to this Wulf and Joab.”

“Are you sure?” Lucina asked. “We have people for interrogations, you know.”

“I’m sure,” he said, though it was clear he wasn’t relishing it. “I have things I need to ask them myself. I’ve put it off too long already.”

Yes, he had been busy the past three days, but not so busy that he couldn’t have found time to see the prisoners. He had simply been avoiding it, afraid of what he might find out.

This darkness that he had always felt inside him, roiling just beneath the surface...had it really been able to consume him so completely? To allow him to let Lucina die, to become a willing servant of Grima? And Inigo...arguably his best friend, the man was as pure a soul as they came. Sure, he could be a bit lecherous, but Gerome knew better than anyone that he was a gentle and loving soul. The thought of HIM serving Mort almost made him more sick to think about.

“Let’s head in. It’ll be dark in a few hours,” Lucina said. With winter encroaching, each day was getting shorter than the last.

They made their way through the castle and towards the throne room. The large room was still mostly unrecognizable; Mort’s project had been left standing for now. Lucina had explained, that first day after the liberation, about the gate she had travelled through to Mort’s home timeline. This was another such gate, she said, and strongly recommended it be destroyed immediately. Others had been more hesitant, however. Libra had argued that it could be extremely dangerous to the city populace to wantonly tear down a magical structure without proper preparation and understanding. Gaius had agreed, stating that Chrom would chop his head off if the castle became a giant crater under his watch.

In the end, they had agreed to write to Miriel, Ylisse’s most well read and highly regarded magical researcher, and asked her to come to the city with due haste. They would dismantle this bloody gate, but they would do it right.

Lucina had still been uncomfortable. “We’ve got to take care of Mort before he can finish it anyway,” Gerome had told her in an attempt to ease her concerns. “If he manages to get through all of us, then none of this will matter anyway.”

He had never been the best at pep talks.

At the far end of the throne room was one of several impromptu clinics that had been set up to deal with the many wounded still recovering from the rebellion of the other day. They were all eager to heal up as quickly as possible so they could join the militia and get their revenge when Mort returned. Lissa was training a batch of new healers to help in this regard.

The loss of Brady was felt hard; with the possible exception of Lissa herself, he had easily been Ylisstol’s best healer. He had been the one that had healed Gerome back to full strength after his gryphon had crashed during the harvest festival; in a matter of hours, Gerome had gone from a broken invalid to a hard-hitting pugilist once more.

Right now, the training wasn’t going great. Lissa’s apprentices were trying to use their staves on each other, but were mostly just whacking each other with them, doing more harm than good.

“Gerome!” she called out as they approached. “Good, I, uh...need to talk to you.”

The princess was usually an excited bundle of joy, but there was an awkward nervousness about her right now that set Gerome on edge.

“What is it? Is everything alright?” he asked.

“...Have you spoken to your mother?” Lissa asked, looking at him warily.

Gerome bit his lower lip. In truth, he hadn’t spoken to her in depth since the night he had stormed out of her house, accusing her of not being his real mother. Oh, they had exchanged a few token words of gratitude after the battle that they were both alive and safe, but she had left to take care of Little Gerome, and he had left to find literally anything else to do other than talk to her.

He had been an absolute shit, and he knew it. He was dreading his next conversation with her even more than his upcoming interrogation of the prisoners.

“Not...uh, not really,” he said, painfully aware of the judgmental looks from both Lissa and Lucina. “Why? She wasn’t injured in the fighting, and neither was her son.” No thanks to me, he added to himself bitterly.

“Gerome,” Lissa said in as stern a voice as she could muster. It wasn’t that stern. “You know I don’t like to pull rank on people, but if you don’t go talk to her, I’m going to put on my Princess Pants, grab you by the earlobe, and drag you to her front steps myself.”

“I’m pretty sure I could take you,” Gerome said, which elicited a smack over the head with her staff. “Ow!” he yelped, more out of surprise than pain.

“I’m not messing around. It’s important, okay? Trust me.”

Gerome sighed. He knew when he was beat. “Okay. I promise. I’ll go talk to her first thing after I’m done with the prisoners.”

Lissa quirked an eyebrow at him. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Talking to yourself? That sounds like a can of worms I don’t think I’d want to open.”

“I’m sure,” Gerome replied. “They could have valuable information about Mort’s plans, to help us defend against his next attack.” This was technically true, though not why he wanted to talk to them.

“Alright,” Lissa said with a shrug. “But right after, you go and talk to your mom. Okay?”

“Yes, okay! Please don’t hit me again,” Gerome responded, hoping a bit of exaggerated fear would lighten the mood a bit. It had the desired effect; Lissa giggled and went back to her work. She was not someone who could stay in a dark mood for long.

As they made their way further down into the underground cells, Lucina grasped Gerome’s arm. It was sweet, even if it was mostly so her legs wouldn’t lose strength on the steep stone stairwell.

Libra was currently on watch. They had all agreed, due to the sensitive and dangerous nature of the prisoners, that somebody with a full understanding of what was happening should keep an eye on them. Libra had volunteered. He possessed a calm, zen-like state that rendered him immune to the psychological taunting anyone could throw at him from behind bars.

“Gerome? Lucina,” he said, standing up as the two approached. “Is something the matter?”

“I need to talk to them,” Gerome said. “Do you mind waiting outside?”

Others might have been offended over a perceived lack of trust, but Libra simply nodded. “Okay. I will be nearby; simply yell for me if you require any assistance, though I’m sure you have things well in hand.”

As he left, Lucina turned to Gerome and quietly asked, “would you like me to leave as well?”

“No,” Gerome responded, squeezing her hand.

Wulf and Joab watched them, the former with cold disinterest, the latter with the insane and darting eyes of a rabid animal.

“I will cut to the chase. We know who you are,” Gerome said, keeping his voice flat and dispassionate. “Inigo...and Gerome.”

The alternate Inigo cackled. The alternate Gerome shrugged.

“Mort has abandoned you,” he continued. “The city is in our control again. Many thousands of people would love nothing more than to see you both hanged from the neck until dead. But I believe you are still capable of being useful. I believe you can turn everything around.”

“Mort didn’t leave us!” Joab sneered. “He’s coming back. He’s gonna cut you for betraying him. Maybe I’ll get in a few cuts as well.”

“Remember when I broke your arm?” Gerome snapped. “You have plenty more bones left.”

This simply made Joab giggle. “I’ve got a bone, alright. Maybe I’ll give it to your hot young mom. Hahaha!”

Dear Gods. Even Inigo was nowhere near this bad.

“Listen,” Gerome said, softening his voice. If fear wasn’t going to work, it was time to change tactics. “Inigo. I know you. I don’t know what happened in your timeline, but in this one, Inigo and I are best friends. He is a good man. Which means YOU are a good man. You must be, somewhere in there.”

Joab laughed again, though this time it was tinged with a slight nervousness.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m a right piece of shit! If you don’t believe me, let me out and give me a few minutes alone with the princess.” He leered at Lucina, and slowly licked his lips. “If your Inigo is anything like me, he’s spent many a lonely night imaging those delicate lips wrapped around his throbbing--”

“Mort doesn’t care about you,” Lucina responded, refusing to be rattled. “He is Grima’s son. He is devoted to him, and him alone. He would kill you without a second thought. You owe him nothing.”

“You want me to switch sides?” Joab asked, continuing to laugh, though it was definitely tainted with uncertainty now. “How about this...you give me a peek so I can finally know if the carpet is as blue as the drapes--”

“You’re a coward,” Gerome snapped. “That’s what this all is. You, Gerome, Morgan. You’re the versions of us that gave up. You surrendered. Grima owns you now. He’s turned you into obedient little children.” For the first time, Joab had quieted down. This line, for whatever reason, seemed to be getting through to him. “My Inigo may be a womanizer, he may be a goof, but he is not a coward. He would never roll over and show Grima his belly as you have. He would never be such a pathetic, weak, little--”

“I killed your father.”

Gerome, Lucina, and Joab all turned to look at Wulf. It was the first time he had spoken.

“Donnel,” he went on. “I had never gotten to know the one in my timeline very well. All I had ever heard was how strong he was. How he had trained from a weak little farm boy into an Ylissean general. I had always been curious to test his strength for myself.”

Wulf was leaning against the back wall of his cell, reclining, behaving as if he was at the pub after work. He smiled as Gerome glared daggers at him.

“I was disappointed,” he continued. “A few arrows brought him to his knees. And when he watched me tower over him, watched me draw my axe...he recognized me. His last thought was that his own son was the one to kill him.” He let out a sound, a twisted mockery of a laugh that made Joab sound genuinely jovial. “He was weak, and the strong will conquer the weak. That is all this is about. You say Mort doesn’t care about us? I say good. He is stronger than me. So long as that is the case, I do what he says. And I am stronger than you…”

He moved forward, grasped two thick iron bars of his cell, and bent them inwards with his bare hands.

“Which means when I get out of here, you will do what I say. Which will be to lay down and die like your weak, pathetic father.”

Gerome looked between Wulf and Joab. He slowly exhaled.

“I’ve heard all I need to,” he said. “There’s no saving you. As Knight of the Halidom, I sentence you both to death. Tomorrow morning, before the eyes of the country and the Gods, I will carry out the sentence myself.” He turned and swept out of the dungeon.

In his rage, he had hurried to the top of the steps before remembering Lucina’s injuries. He quickly turned around, but she was behind him, wincing with each step but keeping pace. 

“I’m so sorry,” Gerome said. “I was just so…”

“Trust me, I understand,” Lucina said, stopping to rest on the top step. “That was awful. Are you really going to execute them?”

“Whatever Mort and Grima did to them...it has broken them. I wanted nothing more than to believe there was still light inside of them, but...it is clear to me that there isn’t. They are beyond saving.”

Lucina stood up, and ran her hand lovingly along Gerome’s arm. “It is tragic, but I agree. They’ve left us little choice, if we are to consider the safety of everyone in the city.”

They stood there a moment longer, comforted by each other’s presence. Gerome was very strongly conscious of how lucky he was to have her back in his life. He had nearly reached through the bars and wrung Joab’s neck over his lascivious comments.

“Would you like me to come with you to see your mother?” Lucina asked, subtly but sternly reminding Gerome of his next obligation.

He smiled at her, but shook his head. “I should do this alone. I said some things to her that I am not proud of. I need to gird myself and apologize.” He sighed. “You know I’m not very good at...feely...souly stuff.”

“They’re called emotions, and yes, I’m aware,” she said with a smirk. After leaning in to kiss him, she said, “I have faith in you. Feel free to come find me when you’re done.”

 

And so it was alone that Gerome made his way through the streets of Ylisstol. The Ylisseans had wasted no time dragging the city back to normalcy as best they could. The market districts were once more alive with the sounds of advertising and haggling, families walked and talked without fear in their eyes. Gerome allowed himself a deep sigh of relief. Their struggles were far from over, but for now the people once more knew freedom and peace.

Without having to worry about dodging Risen patrols, Gerome wound his way to the quiet, upper income neighborhood where his mother lived. He paused out front, realizing that the last time he had come here, he had scaled the back wall and broken in through a window. By comparison, going up and knocking on the front door felt...too direct.

Oh, well, here goes nothing.

He walked down the stone walkway through the front yard, his stomach queasier than it had ever been when charging head first into battle.

Upon reaching the end, he took a deep breath, then knocked on the beautifully carved front door.

While he waited, he looked around the garden. He imagined there must be teams of people employed by the city that worked on these properties. His mother was a woman of many talents and passions, but horticulture wasn’t really one of them. His father, on the other hand, would have preferred to cover his lawn in pig shit and grow as many radishes and turnips as he could. Clearly, someone had requested he not.

The door opened. His mother smiled at him.

“Hi, Gerome. Would you like to come in?”

She sounded friendly enough, and the invitation was kind, but there was a sadness behind her eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”

He took his shoes off and placed them in an alcove by the door, marked by a small floor mat that read “Naga Bless This Mess” in flowing cursive script. It had probably come with the house, he reflected.

“Would you like some tea?”

Cherche was already bustling ahead into the kitchen. Gerome took his time following after her, but when he made it he saw that a kettle was already on the stovetop.

“Sure, thanks,” he said. Being asked about tea had made him weirdly nostalgic for Inigo…

They sat in silence and sipped their tea.

“How is your t--”

“It’s quite good, th--”

They paused, having just spoken at the exact same time.

“So...Lissa told you, I take it?” Cherche asked after another moment of uncomfortable silence.

“She just told me to come talk to you,” Gerome answered. “She made it sound important, but didn’t explain what was going on.” He paused, and put his teacup down. “Is everything alright? With you and...Gerome?”

Cherche smiled and put her cup down as well. “We’re okay. Little Gerome is rattled, but physically unharmed. He’s a tough kid.”

“Yeah, I guess he is,” Gerome agreed.

Cherche took a deep breath, then continued. “When Lissa came to check up on me earlier, we ran some tests.”

“Tests?” Gerome asked, his concern growing. “What kind of tests?”

“Well, I’ll spare you the grosser details,” Cherche went on, “but, well...I’m pregnant.”

Gerome was thankful he had not just taken a sip of tea, else he would have spat it out across the room.

“How is that possible?” was the first thing he could think to ask.

“Oh, geez, did we not have this talk back in your old timeline?” Cherche asked. “Well, okay...you see, when a mommy and a daddy--”

“Very funny!” Gerome snapped. “I mean...I’ve already been born!”

“Yes, a very accurate observation.”

“And I don’t have any siblings!”

“So?” Cherche asked. “You were quite clear that I’m not actually your mother. I’m a different woman in a different timeline. Were your father and I supposed to stop making love just because--”

“Stop, stop,” Gerome begged, looking down at the table. “That’s not what I meant. I just…” This had been nagging at him since that horrible attack at the Harvest Festival. He hadn’t shared this fear with anyone, not even Lucina. “What if the future wasn’t stopped? What if it was just delayed? Donnel survived a few extra years, but was cut down by servants of Grima just the same. What if...what if I’m destined to not have any siblings? That would mean that you…”

“Gerome!” Cherche snapped, but while her voice was now harsher, the look behind her eyes had shifted from sadness to affection. She reached across the table and grabbed his hands. “Is that why you’ve been acting so strangely? You think that, because Donnel died, I would die soon after?”

Gerome looked away, but she squeezed his hand and snapped, “Gerome! Look at me!” He turned back to face her. This is why he preferred to stay behind a mask: because in this moment he was a child, scared and on the verge of tears. He was weak, and everyone who looked at him would know it.

“Mort is coming back,” Gerome said. “And if he hurts you, or...kills you...I don’t want Little Gerome to have to grow up without you, like I did.”

“I have one thing your mother didn’t,” Cherche said, cutting him off. “And that’s you, here to protect me.”

Gerome took a few deep breaths to calm himself down.

“Okay,” he finally said. “I’ll protect you. No matter what happens, I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” He paused, then added, “or to my new little brother or sister.”

 

The rest of the evening was much more pleasant. Opening up to his mother had lifted a burden off his shoulders, made him feel more at peace than he could remember feeling in a long time.

New life...a new child, one who hadn’t been predestined by another timeline. It felt almost sacred to think about it. But if it could happen, then it meant there really was something worth living and fighting for beyond just hatred and vengeance.

Perhaps he and Lucina would be able to have a family of their own, when this was over. One future was null, but that didn’t mean all of them had to be.

“Gerome!”

He had exited his mother’s house after a long hug and heartfelt goodbye, and was walking back down the stone pathway through her garden. He perked up, jolted from his thoughts, to see Owain rushing towards him.

“What is it, Owain?” Gerome asked, suddenly deeply concerned by his friend’s apparently urgent nature.

“You should just come look,” Owain answered.

As they bustled their way through the city, Owain turned to look over his shoulder at Gerome. “Sorry to interrupt you. My mom said you were visiting your mom, and that I shouldn’t bother you unless it was really important, but by my mighty sword hand, I vow that the information I possess is of the utmost relevance!”

Gerome followed the young swordsman into a guard tower and up the winding flight of stairs that would bring them to the top of the wall adjacent to the main gate of the city. He listened politely, trying not to lose his patience with Owain’s melodramatic speech pattern.

“You see, it is not just my hand that is cursed with the power of the Gods, but my eye as well, and with it, I spied...something!”

“Something,” Gerome repeated, as neutrally as he could manage.

They had reached the top of the wall, where Owain had set up a post to keep watch from. A pair of binoculars were resting nearby. Owain snatched them up, held them out to Gerome, and pointed to the forests west of the city.

“Just look!” he said.

Gerome picked up the binoculars and looked.

Unbeknownst to him, a few others had noticed him and Owain dashing madly through the city. Lucina and Severa had picked up the trail and followed after them to see what was wrong. It took them several moments longer to catch up, as Severa helped Lucina make her way up the stairs, but soon enough they had reached the top of the wall as well.

“What the hell were you two freaks running around for? You’re scaring the city half to death!” Severa snapped. Owain blushed and looked away. Lucina felt bad for her poor cousin, whom she had long suspected harbored a crush on Severa.

“Gerome?” Lucina asked, trying a more gentle touch. “What is it? Is it Mort?”

Gerome slowly turned around to face them, lowering the binoculars. The look on his face was...strange. Lucina could not place it, but it didn’t seem good.

“It’s not Mort,” he said, and something in his voice made her feel like it might somehow be worse.

“Well? What is it!?” Severa snapped.

“I appreciate dramatic suspense as much as the next man, but come on!” Owain said.

“It’s…” Gerome took a deep breath, as if he wasn’t ready to hear it himself. “It’s Inigo. And he’s got an army of red headed women with him.”


End file.
